


Venomous Tentacula

by NeverNooitNiet



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Coming Out, Domestic Violence, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hey fun fact @ JK Rowling, Homophobic Language, Hufflepuff Crowley, Implied Internalised Homophobia, Lesbian Anathema, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Swearing, Tags will be added as we go, everyone at Hogwarts is gay now, long and meandering conversations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-08-24 15:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 90,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverNooitNiet/pseuds/NeverNooitNiet
Summary: It wasn’t, Aziraphale told himself crossly, as though he was a particular follower of gossip. Half the things people said about Crowley probably weren’t true, anyway, and even if they were, what did it matter? Aziraphale didn’t have to marry him. They just had to do Herbology together.But this was fifth year, O.W.L.s year, and Aziraphale couldn’t afford any distractions. Especially snarky sunglasses-wearing ones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been one of the hardest fics for me to write- some chapters have gone through about five drafts, and I'm still not really happy with them- but also one of the most fun and engaging, and I don't think I'm more than a quarter through writing it yet! I've gotten about 16k words done so far, so updates should start off very regular, and then get dramatically less regular as school and exams and things start to kick in.
> 
> Please let me know if there's anything you'd like me to tag, and even if there isn't please just comment anyway because I love validation.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy!!

Aziraphale stared down at the worn piece of parchment in his hands.  _Herbology partner, Aziraphale Douglass: Anthony J. Crowley._

 He wasn’t particularly sure how to feel about this. Group projects, as Aziraphale had learned time and time again, were always a living Hell, but at least most of the time he was able to sort of subtly suggest to his partner that they bugger off and let him do it properly. He had a sneaking suspicion that Crowley wouldn’t be like that at all. No, Crowley would want to get  _involved._

 Perhaps this was all a bit harsh of Aziraphale. He barely knew Crowley, after all. But he knew  _of_ him, and that was worse. Aziraphale had a fairly terrible memory when it came to names, but even he instantly knew who Crowley was. Aziraphale thought  it was probably the sunglasses. 

 Heavens, the sunglasses. Aziraphale had no idea why Crowley felt the need to wear them constantly. He strongly suspected that no-one else did either. And yet none of the teachers ever demanded that he remove them, not even Snape. This bothered Aziraphale slightly, for reasons that he couldn’t quite explain. 

 Aziraphale looked at the note again, as though it might have mysteriously changed its mind about who his assigned partner was, but it was to no avail.  _Anthony J. Crowley,_ the cursive still read, plain as day. It was odd, seeing Crowley’s first name written down. He’d sort of forgotten he had one— Crowley was just so universally  _Crowley_ , to students and teachers alike. It had been his mother’s maiden name, Aziraphale was dimly aware. It was sweet, he supposed, that Crowley was trying to keep her memory alive, except... well. There was the matter of that small, damning black  _J._ The  _J_ that stood for  _Jaeger_ , one of the oldest and vilest pureblood families. That little  _J_ meant that Crowley could wear his sunglasses all the time like he thought he was some sort of bloody rock star, and no-one would ever so much as question it. He might use his mother’s name and act all humble, but the privelige and power still seemed to ooze off him, and Aziraphale resented it. 

 It wasn’t, Aziraphale told himself crossly, as though he was a particular follower of gossip. Half the things people said about Crowley probably weren’t true, anyway, and even if they were, what did it matter? Aziraphale didn’t have to marry him. They just had to do Herbology together. 

 But this was fifth year, O.W.L.s year, and Aziraphale couldn’t afford any distractions. Especially snarky sunglasses-wearing ones. 

 All right, what else did he know about Crowley? Surely he couldn’t be that bad, or he’d be in Slytherin rather than Hufflepuff. 

 Oh yes. He lived with his uncle, because his mother was dead and his father was in Azkaban. His father was in Azkaban for murdering three muggles. 

 Brilliant. Aziraphale could hardly contain his excitement. 

 Aziraphale sighed, and placed the piece of parchment in his trunk before snapping it shut with a definitive  _boom._ One lesson. He’d do one lesson with Crowley, and if it really was as bad as he thought it was going to be, he’d ask to change. Simple as. 

 Now, he had to be going before he’d miss the train. 


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley’s summer, as per usual, had been awful. Two whole months in the big, dark halls of the house that didn’t fit him, with no escape from the crushing presence of Hastur and Ligur, or worse, his uncle. Well. The man who was technically his uncle. They weren’t family. He refused to call them family, for the same reasons he refused to use  _Jaeger_  as his last name. 

 He’d had a family. Once. His mother, obviously, but also a series of aunts and grandparents. He dimly remembered the soft warmth of them, the way it’d felt when they hugged him, the cloud of perfume his grandmother always wore. The smell of it had always made him feel safe. 

 It was the exact opposite of how he felt now, with the cool, hard feel of a marble staircase digging into his back. Crowley had become fairly well-acquainted with the floors of this place, over the years, always being pushed down by someone. In the seven years since his mother had died, he’d practically perfected the art of being used as a punching bag. 

 The worst time had been back when he’d started calling himself Crowley, wrapping his mother’s memory around him like a shield, a last, desperate act of defiance. Hastur has shoved him onto the floor, asking him who the fuck he thought he was, that he didn’t deserve to use the Jaeger name anyway, that maybe he should just go and rot in Hell with his muggle pig of a mother. He remembered how he’d tried to stand, the desperate slick of sweaty palms on marble  the way he’d desperately tried to scramble up on his knees, tried to regain his footing on the slippery marble floor, and the way Ligur had looked at him, with utter contempt, before Hastur’s wide gash of a mouth had split open in a sneer. 

 “Look at ‘im. Always crawling around on the floor. Crowley? Fuck that. You should be calling yourself  _Crawly_ ,” he’d said, a cruel glint in his eyes, before he’d started to kick Crowley until his uncle eventually had to intervene before he got too much blood on the floor. 

 It had stuck, though, and he’d been Crawly ever since. 

 Crowley didn’t really bother to try and stand  up anymore. It only made things worse. 

 The day had started off good, too— well, as good as things ever got for Crowley in the Jaeger household. He’d gotten a letter from Hogwarts with all his book lists and information, ready for his fifth year. During the summer, Crowley clung to any scrap of communication from Hogwarts like a life raft, trying to hold on to the reminder that in less than a month he’d be safe from his uncle, from the shadows of this house, for an entire year. 

 He’d torn open the parchement with desperate, eager hands, and obsessively read over each shred of information. Book list: he scanned over it quickly, but then discarded it. He wouldn’t be allowed to go to Diagon Alley himself anyway, not after the time he’d tried to make a break for it when he was ten. His uncle himself had been the one to throw him to the floor, that time. Next: rules, same as always, would definitely be ignored by his cousins and occasionally by him, but only for the most noble of reasons. Then a small note in stern handwriting that warned that this was O.W.L.s year, and that it would be excruciatingly important that they kept up with all their work. Like Crowley didn’t know— the better his grades, the faster and further he could get away from this hellhole. 

 He continued to look through the envelope, and found a final note in the familiar handwriting of Professor Sprout, his head of house and more importantly, his Herbology teacher- by far his favorite subject. He read the letter with a grin—  _Dear fith years, as you may know, part of the Herbology O.W.L.s course is a project-based enterprise where you grow and tend to a magical plant of your choice with a partner. To ensure that work does actually get done, I’ve taken the liberty of choosing your partners for you._

 Crowley scanned the list until he found his name:  _Herbology partner, Anthony J. Crowley: Aziraphale Douglass_. Aziraphale... wasn’t that the short Ravenclaw with the glasses? He shrugged. It could have been a lot worse— to the best of his knowledge, Douglass had never overtly voiced his hatred of Crowley, unlike a depressing majority of his class. And he was smart, too. He put the sheaf of letters down, and let himself fall back on the bed with a sigh. For want of anything better to do, he’d already started packing his trunk, returning his room to its prison-worthy emptiness. It had taken depressingly little time to shove a few clothes into his trunk: even after seven years, his room remained impersonal and cold. He left all his important things in the trunk over the summer, and only took them out when he got to Hogwarts. Less chance of Hastur or Ligur destroying them. 

 Just one more weekend left before he could get out of this house for almost a full year. Two days. It felt like an eternity. 

 Crowley must have been the only child in all of England who  _hadn’t_ been excited to go to Hogwarts- all it had meant for him was being stuck with Hastur and Ligur and all their death eater junior buddies, away from even the dubious protection of his uncle, who at least fixed Crowley up when he was too much of a mess. 

 “Can’t have him looking a state, now can we?” He’d always say, disdainfully waving a wand at Crowley, who’d stand hunched and sullen as the worst of the pain faded and his cuts and bruises— the ones that couldn’t be hidden by clothing, anyway— stubbornly trying to resist the urge to do something very stupid, like punching his uncle or crying. “Now, Anthony, this really has to stop. This is the third time this week I’ve had to patch you up.”

 But to everyone’s surprise, including Crowley’s own, he hadn’t been put in Slytherin. He’d gotten Hufflepuff instead. And yeah, Hastur and co. had come after him at the first opportunity for that, and half his classmates thought he was some kind of supervillain, but for the first time since his mother had died... he was safe again. And he had friends. Not many, but enough. 

 And then at the end of the year, he went back to the Jaeger mansion for two months of Hell. 

 Two more years, and he’d be seventeen, and free to fuck off as far away as humanly possible from the Jaegers and their mansion on the outskirts of Manchester. He’d looked it up and everything- it was somewhere in New Zealand. Two years. An even bigger eternity. 

 He was almost done packing when Hastur came in, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

 “Mornin’, Crawly.” He surveyed Crowley’s trunk with exaggerated dismay. “Getting ready to leave us already? But me and Ligur will miss you while you’re off with all the other losers in Hufflepuff.” 

 Crowley rolled his eyes, a gesture that was sadly hidden behind his sunglasses. 

 “You should find out if there’s a drama club at Hogwarts, Hastur. That’s talent, right there.” 

 Hastur’s expression soured. 

 “You  _would_  bring up drama. But me an’ Ligur are just here to give you a little goodbye present, before you spend all year getting soft.” Ligur emerged from behind the doorframe, hands already curling into fists in preparation. 

 What followed was so frustratingly inevitable that Crowley knew all the moves, like a dance. The rough pull of Hastur’s hand in his collar, the sharp bursts of fists on skin, the feeble readiness of his arms, trying to shield his face, and finally the familiar crack of his body colliding with the cold marble floor. He felt a hot trickle of blood slide down his face, and when he reached up, found that the left lens of his sunglasses had shattered, cutting his cheek, and worse, revealing a slitted yellow eye. Even Ligur seemed to realise this was a line that was not crossed- Crowley’s sunglasses stayed on. Permanently. He muttered a quick  _reparo—_ Hastur and Ligur were two years older than Crowley but in the year above, having been held back in order to redo their O.W.L.s due to what McGonnagall has called ‘an exceptional lack of brain cells’, making them now seventeen and legally able to do magic outside of Hogwarts— and the shards of glass flew back at Crowley’s face with alarming speed, before reforming into their familiar dark seal, hiding Crowley’s secrets from the world. 

 Hastur awkwardly cleared his throat. “Yeah. Well. See you round,  _Crawly_ ,” he said, kicking Crowley once more in the stomach for good measure, before he and Ligur walked away, leaving him there on the cold floor. 

  _Two more days,_ Crowley repeated to himself like a mantra, eyes closed behind the private darkness of his glasses.  _Just two more days._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Please tell me what you thought, constructive criticism is always appreciated, as are comments and kudos :)


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley managed to get away from Hastur and Ligur as quickly as humanly possible once they got on the train, ducking into a nearby compartment where he could see the grinning face of his fellow Hufflepuff and somehow-friend, Newton Pulsifer. 

 It was impossible to feel awkward around Newt; the boy was basically the living embodiment of whatever spell it was that broke electronics in Hogwarts, and on top of that had an incredible talent for tripping and generally breaking things. Crowley looked almost effortlessly cool in comparison. But Newt was also a good listener, and more importantly, didn’t seem too judgemental about Crowley’s reluctant links to the Jaeger family. There was just a sort of disarming earnestness to Newt that made him very likeable. 

 He was probably the closest thing that Crowley had to a best friend. 

 Crowley slid into the seat next to Newt with the most intense feeling of happiness he’d had in two months, and felt a great familiar sense of relief as his tangled nerves finally relaxed. He’d made it— it would be a full year before he’d have to go back to the dark halls of the Jaeger mansion. 

 Newt greeted him with a wry smile, hoisting up his trunk, which he’d already managed to break the lid off, and which was sporting what looked remarkably like burn marks. Crowley stared at it with a stupid kind of amusement. 

 “Newt. You live in London. It takes you what, one cab ride to get to the station? How-  _has this trunk been set on fire_?”

 Newt shrugged and put the trunk down with slightly too much force, resulting in a worrying  _clank._ They both winced, but before they could inspect Newt’s likely-broken belongings, there was the distinct, impatient sound of someone clearing their throat. 

 They looked up to see Anathema Device, an intimidatingly confident Slytherin and also, Crowley remembered with a wicked smile, Newt’s long-time crush, standing in the doorway of their compartment, followed by a short Ravenclaw with a mass of dark curls and thick, circular glasses that almost rivalled Harry Potter’s.  _Aziraphale, right_ , he recalled. His new Herbology partner. 

 “Mind if we sit with you?” Anathema asked, already swooping in without waiting for an answer, Aziraphale following. Newt awkwardly stammered a yes and shoved his battered trunk out of the way, where it hit the wall with a distinctly worrying noise. There was a collective hissing intake of breath, and then a stilted silence descended over the four of them. 

 Aziraphale surveyed Crowley- up close, he didn’t look as intimidating or snooty as he’d worried. He was skinny, almost painfully so, brown skin stretched over a collection of hard lines and jutting angles, with messy fingernails bitten to the quick, and of course his face was dominated by those unnaturally dark sunglasses. 

 Finally, Newt, who Aziraphale didn’t know personally but whom he’d heard enough embarrassing stories about to have a vague idea of, finally broke the silence by asking Crowley, slightly too loudly, what his summer had been like. Crowley shrugged his shoulders expressively. 

 “Bloody  _awful_ , obviously,” he said, head tilted backwards. “And to make matters worse, the Malfoys were over almost every night for dinner. I’m expecting an offer for Draco’s hand in marriage any day now.” 

 Newt laughed, and nodded mock-seriously. 

 “And are you going to accept?” 

 Crowley ran a hand through his hair. 

 “Are you kidding me? He totally has a thing for Potter. I’m not getting in the way of that.” Anathema nodded in agreement. Aziraphale blinked. 

 “Wait, Malfoy and  _Potter_? Really?”

 “Really,” said Anathema and Crowley in unison, and Crowley turned to grin at Aziraphale, properly looking at him for the first time. His teeth were very white and remarkably pointy. Aziraphale blushed and broke eye contact- or, well, as close as he could get with the glasses- by turning to watch the landscape streaming by outside their window, the city already beginning to give way to fields and greenery as they sped north. 

 It was Anathema who broke the silence next, her sharp voice cutting in. 

 “So do you think it’s true, then?” She asked. “That Voldemort’s back?” 

 Aziraphale instinctively flinched at the sound of the name. Anathema was confident, fearless. They’d bonded after having a fierce argument in the library over a book on prophecies that had eventually gotten them both kicked out, but when someone is willing to curse you with every first-year spell they know for Agnes Nutter’s biography, it’s impossible not to become friends with them. And so Anathema and Aziraphale had become unlikely but remarkably good friends, top of their year along with that Hermione girl. But Aziraphale did well at school because he worked, and studied, and revised until he was about to pass out. Anathema approached school with the same easy confidence she had for everything else, and seemed to sail through just fine. It sometimes made Aziraphale hate her just a little bit. 

 Anathema wasn’t scared of anything. Not even, it seemed, of You-Know-Who. (Aziraphale didn’t even dare  _think_ the name, just in case. And he mentally capitalised all the letters, too.) 

 “I don’t  _want_ it to be true,” he finally replied. “But I don’t know, I don’t think Potter would lie about something like this. Despite all those things the Daily Prophet was saying.” 

 “And Cedric...” added Newt, softly. “He was- he was great. I don’t think he would have just died in an accident.” 

 Crowley nodded, fumbling with the frame of his sunglasses. Anathema wheeled round, focused her dark-eyed gaze on him. 

 “What about you? I bet your uncle knows. We all know he was a death eater.” She didn’t say it accusingly, but stated it as the simple fact it was. 

 Crowley, to Aziraphale’s relief, didn’t look particularly offended, just nodded affably. 

 “He probably does, yeah. But he’s not exactly going to tell me, is he?” Crowley sat up straighter, conjured a haughty expression onto his face, and began mimicking his uncle with the poshest accent Aziraphale had ever heard, gesticulating wildly as he did so. “Ah, Anthony, you crushing disapointment, the Dark Lord has returned and I’m off to kill some innocent people. Don’t go telling anyone now, will you?” 

 Aziraphale let out a genuine laugh. Maybe partnering with Crowley wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

 Crowley shrugged. 

 “But yeah, something’s up, I think. Like I said, the Malfoys were over constantly. All the old gang getting back together.”

 They kept talking for a while, swapping theories and strategies on how they would survive should You-Know-Who be back, half joking, half deadly serious in that way that teenagers often have— a kind of nihilistic optimism. 

 Eventually the topic circled back round to something they could control, or at least have some kind of impact on: O.W.L.s. 

 Aziraphale shuddered at the thought. 

 “I’m already worried about revising and things. This is our  _future_ we’re talking about. I don’t want to mess it up.”

 Crowley shot him an incredulous look. 

 “Shut up. You’re a bloody genius. It’s the rest of us who need to worry.” 

 Aziraphale blushed, embarrassed. He wasn’t a genius. What nobody seemed to realise was that he got good grades because he worked and revised and had minor mental breakdowns before every test. There wasn’t much actual intelligence involved, just a whole lot of work, and it stressed him out. A lot. He looked out the window to avoid having to answer, and was surprised that he could see the familiar view of Hogsmead in the distance. 

 “We’re almost there!” He said, pressing his face to the cool glass to see better. For that one moment, as the quaint little village pulled into view, he could forget exams, forget everything, and just be an eleven-year-old boy again, seeing Hogwarts for the first time. The feeling of seeing that magic was really real. He turned back round to the others, and found Crowley smiling at him. 

 “It always feels almost like coming home, doesn’t it?” He said softly. “Only better. Like things are going to start happening.” 

 Aziraphale nodded, and together they watched the train pull into the station. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got over 2K words written today, so feeling very productive :) Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you thought, even if you totally hated it!


	4. Chapter 4

The night air was cool and fresh as they made their way towards the horseless carriages. 

 “What  _does_  pull those things?” Aziraphale asked Crowley absent-mindedly, pulling his trunk along behind him. 

 Crowley shot him a weird look. 

 “The...giant terrifying black skeletal death horses?” 

 Aziraphale started back at Crowley, then looked at the carriages, which were still as horseless as ever. 

 “The  _what_ now?”

 “You don’t see them?” Crowley replied, tone incredulous but serious. Aziraphale didn’t know Crowley well enough to be able to judge if he was joking, and the sunglasses didn’t help, either.  _I just wish I could see his eyes_ , Aziraphale caught himself thinking, not for the first time that night. He flushed and settled for awkwardly laughing and turning to face Anathema, but she was busy surveying Newt with an expert eye. Newt’s cheeks were bright red and he looked even more uncomfortable than Aziraphale felt. Anathema caught him looking and shot him a wicked grin before dragging away her poor victim into the nearest carriage, leaving Aziraphale alone with Crowley, who grinned at him and messed with his mop of dark hair. 

 “That Anathema’s really something, huh?”

 Aziraphale sighed. Of  _course_  Crowley liked Anathema. Everyone did. She was so incredibly confident and put-together and... _calm._ Calm and unbothered and relaxed in a way that Aziraphale could never be. 

 “Yes, I suppose she’s quite...impressive,” he managed, with a resigned tone. Crowley seemed to catch on, though, tilting his head to one side before giving an awkward laugh.

 “No, I didn’t— I mean, I don’t like her like  _that—_ er. She’s just so  _confident_. Newt’s been staring after her like a lost puppy for months now, and she drags him off after five minutes. I wish I had that kind of confidence.” He started to get in one of the carriages, hoisting his trunk in first before reaching out a slender-fingered hand to help Aziraphale up. Aziraphale took it, and was surprised by the tingle the skin-to-skin contact gave him, the way the tough, cool skin fit against his own soft fingers. He clambered up into the carriage, and there was an awkward moment as they both stood there, silent, fingers intertwined, before Aziraphale hurriedly let go. Crowley’s cheeks were red and he fiddled with his sunglasses as he sat down, already gazing at the looming castle in the distance with unbridled longing. They were quiet throughout the drive, but Aziraphale couldn’t tell if the silence was awkward or peaceful. He tried to ignore his swirling thoughts and focus on Hogwarts, looming ever closer, towers bold against the soft purple of the dusky sky.

 He turned to look at Crowley, who had his face pressed up to the carriage’s small window with almost childlike enthusiasm, the setting sun reflected in the perfect dark of his sunglasses. 

 “It’s good to be back,” Crowley said softly. “It’s really, really good.”

 And Aziraphale found that despite their looming exams and all his worries, it was. 

 All too soon, they had arrived, and the castle swallowed them up in its vast majesty. They both dropped off their trunks before they walked into the dining hall together, where Crowley awkwardly waved goodbye to Aziraphale. 

 “Yeah, well, see you round...partner,” he said with a lopsided smirk. Aziraphale smiled too, and waved back before walking over to the Ravenclaw table, as Crowley made his way over to Hufflepuff, where he could already see a borderline hysterical Newt waiting for him. 

 

After the sorting, Aziraphale sat at the end of the Ravenclaw table, not quite sure what to do with himself. He and Anathema usually sat together, neither being particularly patriotic (was that the right word?) as far as their houses were concerned; the first and last feasts of the year were usually the only exceptions. As the evening drew on, he had to fight the urge to pull out a book and start reading. For want of anything better to do, he focused his energy on eating, stabbing at his mashed potatoes with a frightening intensity. 

 It wasn’t that he wasn’t friendly with the other Ravenclaw students— he’d chat with them in lessons, no problem, and there was always someone willing to partner up with him, usually due to the fact that Aziraphale always knew all the answers. But they weren’t  _friends._ Once they’d gotten past small talk, they didn’t have much to say to each other, really. Aziraphale looked down the table with a sigh, feeling the book-shaped absence like a gaping wound in his soul. 

 He looked over to the Slytherin table, where Anathema sat, looking equally uninvested in any of the conversations, but somehow managing to carry it off in an aloof and stylish manner, while Aziraphale was fairly certain he just looked like some deranged mashed potato-obsessed maniac. Anathema caught his eye and waved, before using her fork to gesture up to the teacher’s table. Aziraphale followed her gaze and caught sight of a squat woman dressed in a ghastly assortment of pink, with a threateningly large bow perched in her shirt mass of dark, obnoxiously well-done curls. Aziraphale scanned the table: no other new teachers- although Professor Grubbly-Plank, who he’d had a few times as a substitute, was now sitting in what had always been Hagrid’s seat. 

 So this must be their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, then. He frowned. She didn’t look particularly experienced, but gave off a smug air of self-importance that instinctively made Aziraphale dislike her. He gave Anathema a questioning glance, and she shrugged in return, before mouthing ‘Toad’ in exaggerated pantomime. Aziraphale looked back at the unknown teacher and had to laugh: she did bear a remarkable resemblance to a toad, with a broad face and far-set eyes bulging from her face. As everyone finally seemed to have finished eating, Professor Dumbledore stood up, and the plates and dishes vanished, leaving only a collection of crumbs behind. Dumbledore peered at the collection of students over his spectacles, and launched into the usual speech— students were banned from the forbidden forest, magic was forbidden in the corridors— before confirming Aziraphale’s suspicions by announcing the woman in pink, Professor Umbridge, as their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. He was now on Quidditch trials, just about the least interesting subject on earth as far as Aziraphale was concerned, and he sighed, disappointed. He normally quite enjoyed Dumbledore’s little speeches, not to mention his clever wit, but he’d been hoping for  _some_  allusion to current events. Surely You-Know-Who was more important than  _Quidditch?_  But before Dumbledore could finish announcing the times for the try-outs, Professor Umbridge began clearing her throat with a terribly annoying  _hem_ noise. Aziraphale leaned forward. Did she want to make a speech? While Dumbledore was talking? Evidently so, and while Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow, he said nothing and instead submissively sat down, letting her take the stand. 

 Professor Umbridge stood up with a simpering smile, and began to address the students of Hogwarts with the most infantile tone Aziraphale had heard since he was about three years old. Nothing useful here, then. He turned back round to Anathema and rolled his eyes expressively, and she mimed sticking her fingers down her throat. All around them, students seemed to be having similar reactions, with no-one paying any particular attention, and the Professor made her annoying little  _hem_  noise again before staring over, with a brusque, businesslike tone this time.

 “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance...” she began, and Aziraphale’s ears pricked up for the first time that night. This woman worked at the  _ministry_? He read the Daily Prophet, he knew exactly what the ministry thought of Dumbledore and his ideas, and now this woman was here, at Hogwarts? That was direct government interference. 

  _That can’t be allowed, surely,_ he thought, not for the first time in the last five years. Aziraphale’s grandmother had been a squib, and neither of his parents had had magic either, and so while his grandmother had told him stories of the Wizarding World, he’d grown up in a muggle household, with a government that while not always brilliant or even particularly good, at least sort of made sense and had  _rules_ to it. The Wizarding World was so convinced of its superiority that it rarely bothered to change or update its systems, and then you ended up with strange pink-wearing government officials trying to brainwash your children. 

 Aziraphale tried to keep focused for the rest of Professor Umbridge’s speech— and it was a very long speech— before finally being allowed to head back up to his familiar bed in the Ravenclaw dormitories, where his books were waiting for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! As ever, kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are much appreciated :)


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley woke up with the familiar happy giddiness he always got when he realised he  was in his own safe Hogwarts dorm bed, far away from Hastur and Ligur and surrounded by people who at least mostly tolerated him. Eyes still closed, he grabbed his sunglasses off his nightstand and shoved them on his face, a move he’d perfected over the years, before opening his eyes in the quiet darkness behind the small tinted panes of glass. Nobody ever saw Crowley’s eyes—he didn’t even look at them himself most of the time, if he could help it. After adjusting the angle of the frames slightly, Crowley swung himself out of bed, and gave Newt’s as-yet unmoving body a shove. The other Hufflepuff woke up with a despairing moan, and he rolled over, refusing to let go of the pillow he had in a death trap. Crowley had to laugh.  
  
“Newt,” He said, with that slow, patient tone reserved for small children and half-deaf elderlies, “Anathema’s here to see you.”  
  
Newt let out a strangled noise, letting go of his pillow abruptly, tried to leap out of bed, and ended up in a heap on the floor. There was also a sizeable amount of drool on his face.  
  
It was moments like this that made Crowley wish he owned a camera.  
  
“Nathema?” Newt slurred, and Crowley had to take mercy on the poor boy.  
  
“She’s not really here, Newt. But if you hurry up and get dressed, we can go see her at breakfast, yeah?”  
  
Newt nodded sluggishly, and Crowley grinned and left him to it.  
  
When they eventually got downstairs, Crowley immediately busied himself with shoving as much toast as possible into his mouth, while Newt looked around with a carefully schooled expression of nonchalance, clearly trying to spot Anathema.  
  
“Just give it a rest, will you?” Crowley said through a mouthful of toast. “You’re making me nervous just watching you. “Eat something, for someone’s sake. She’ll turn up eventually.”  
  
“For who’s sake, now?” Anathema asked, choosing just this moment to join them, with Aziraphale in tow. Both the Hufflepuffs blushed, embarrassed.  
  
“I don’t really do religion,” Crowley explained sheepishly. “So, you know... for someone’s sake. Rather than God’s, or whoever.” He turned his attention to Aziraphale. “Are you religious, then?”  
  
Aziraphale shrugged.  
  
“I suppose so, yes. I’ve never really thought about it much, it’s just what my family does...”  
  
Crowley nodded.  
  
“Your family are muggles, right?”  
  
Aziraphale bristled, annoyed.  
  
“And yours are death eaters?” It came out slightly sharper than he’d intended, and Crowley flushed.  
  
“I— sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just wondering...” He stammered, messing with his sunglasses as he spoke.  
  
Aziraphale relaxed slightly, shoulders softening “Ah. Er. Well. Apology accepted. And I’m sorry about what I said about your family, too.”  
  
Crowley sighed. “Don’t be. You’re right. They’re a bunch of bastards.” He gestured at his glasses with a scowl. “I’m rolling my eyes under here, by the way.” Aziraphale laughed, and smiled at him, and Crowley tentatively smiled back, before looking away to fish his schedule out of his satchel. Aziraphale leaned in.  
  
“We’ve got Double Herbology first thing, don’t we?”  
  
Crowley nodded. “Did you get the letter? We’re supposed to be partners this year, aren’t we?” He forced the question out very casually, like he’d barely given their imminent partnership any thought, rather than obsessively worrying about whether or not Aziraphale was going to despise him. Aziraphale flushed as well, trying to hide the fact that he’d been mentally going over every instance he could remember of Crowley’s behaviour in Herbology, hoping to see if he’d work well as a partner, and managed a vaguely nonchalant “Yes, I think so,” before breakfast ended, and it was time to go.  
  
  
  
The boys said goodbye to Anathema, who had Transfiguration first thing with the other Slytherins, and made their way over to the greenhouses, Newt trailing behind as Crowley and Aziraphale discussed their newfound partnership.  
  
“So are you any good at Herbology, then?” Aziraphale asked, still with that forced casualness. But Crowley’s face lit up with genuine enthusiasm as he answered, hand movements picking up as he got exited, and Aziraphale felt some of that wild happiness spread to him as Crowley answered.  
  
“It’s my best subject. And my favourite. It’s- i dunno. I just love plants. And gardening, and stuff... I kind of have a knack for it.” He gave a small smile. “I remember being in the garden with my mum, when I was really little, and her showing me what to do... I mean, these were normal muggle plants, obviously, but the same principles apply. She used to tell me to talk to the plants, too.”  
  
“And do you?” Asked Aziraphale, unable to help himself. Crowley looked at him, slightly surprised to find himself back in the present.  
  
“Uh. I mean. Sometimes. Stupid things, mostly. And threats, if they don’t don’t grow well enough.”  
  
Aziraphale’s smile widened.  
  
“That’s... a lot sweeter than I expected from you.”  
  
Crowley clutched his chest in mock horror.  
  
“Sweet? Haven’t you heard the other students? I’m not sweet. I’m the bloody Devil incarnate.” The jokey tone in Crowley’s voice couldn’t quite conceal a bitter undertone, and the pair of them lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as they traversed the quadrangle that led to the greenhouses.  
  
The Devil incarnate. Well, that was certainly one word for all the rumours Aziraphale had heard about Crowley, and he thought back to his own disgruntled regret at seeing Crowley’s name written on his letter with a twing of guilt. But seeing Crowley now, awkward and blushing behind his sunglasses, he thought that perhaps he’d been wrong in his assumptions.  
  
After all, he seriously doubted that the Devil talked to his plants.  
  
They arrived at the greenhouses, dangerously close to being late, and pulled open the door to find most of their class, a mixture of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuffs, already waiting for them. Crowley and Aziraphale moved down the table until they reached an empty spot on the workbench, and Newt bounced up to join them, standing on Crowley’s left. Aziraphale regarded the Hufflepuff, who was watching the plants, particularly the fanged geraniums, with no small degree of terror.  
  
“Do you two normally work together?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, nodding his head to indicate Newt, who was now staring at the Chinese Chomping Cabbages like they might strike at any moment— which, in Newt’s defense, was a distinct possibility, but it wouldn’t do to let the plants know that you were scared. They’d only play on it.  
  
“Normally, yes, but for I’m not letting him anywhere near my plants.”  
  
Newt nodded with a resigned expression on his face, and poked wanly at the cabbages with his wand, which hissed and bared their not-inconsiderable teeth. Aziraphale laughed, but took a few steps back from Newt and the cabbages, just to be safe. Crowley looked him in the eyes though those sunglasses, and gave Aziraphale a look that said he knew exactly what he was doing, and Aziraphale had to grin in response.  
  
He was jolted away from Crowley by the sound of Professor Sprout clearing her throat, calling their class to order. She stood at the head of the low wooden table, dressed in warm shades of earthy brown, face weathered and easy. There was something very here about Professor Sprout, something about the dirt clinging to the creases of her calloused hands that made her seem much more real and solid than anyone else in the room, as though she was tethered to the earth somehow. Aziraphale looked over, and saw Crowley’s shoulders visibly relax as he listened to Professor Sprout talk about their upcoming project.    
  
The stout woman placed her hands on her hips as she surveyed the gaggle of students huddled round the potting table, who were eyeing the plants around them with varying degrees of hostility. Only Crowley seemed perfectly at ease, in his natural habitat with all the plants around him. In the grand scale of things that could hurt Crowley, plants were ranked fairy low. Professor Sprout cleared her throat and began.  
  
“As I sincerely hope you are aware of by now, fifth year is O.W.L.s year. And as you may not know, the exam board have seen fit to make some changes to the Herbology O.W.L., in order to better allow you to demonstrate your practical skills. So over the course of this year, you and your partner will be growing, tending to and eventually harvesting ingredients from a magical plant of your choice. You will also have to write some essays on the subject as coursework, which are mandatory, Mr Stebbins,” she added, with a stern glare at a Hufflepuff Crowley vaguely knew was on the Quidditch team. Professor Sprout went on. “Obviously, the more challenging and dangerous the plant, the higher your grade will be. I don’t want to see anyone growing Bouncing Bulbs, all right? You are a very capable class, and I want you all working to the very best of your abilities.” She smiles at them, then waved a hand dismissively. “Now go find your partners, and get to work!”  
  
Crowley and Aziraphale awkwardly grinned at one another as the students around them began to split into pairs. An annoyed-looking Ravenclaw with her hair in two plaits went over to work with Newt with an exasperated look on her face, and Newt gulped, terrified. Aziraphale had to laugh, sympathising with the girl, and he and Crowley moved over into an empty space before pulling out a copy of the textbook so that they could make a start on choosing a plant.  
  
“We’ve got to grow something good, obviously,” Crowley said, businesslike, already briskly flipping through the textbook at an admirable rate. “Sprout is right, it’s the dangerous plants that’ll get us the marks...”  
  
Aziraphale nodded his head in agreement, but also immediately turned the page when Crowley stopped to look at Devil’s Snare with slightly too much interest for his taste.  
  
“Right. But we also have to be sensible. We want something we can still grow successfully— and we can always make up marks in essays.”  
  
Crowley looked up at him with a pointy-toothed smile.  
  
“Right, I keep forgetting you’re insanely smart. I’m too used to working with Newt.”  
  
“I’m not insanely...” Aziraphale began, but trailed off as he saw the page Crowley had just triumphantly stabbed his finger down on.  
  
“Venomous Tentacula!” Crowley exclaimed excitedly. “It’s perfect— challenging enough that we don’t do it practically until next year, but we’ve gone over the theory half a million times, so you should be able to write your essays, no problem.”  
  
Aziraphale leaned in to get a closer look at the plant- a dangerous sworl of swaying tentacles and hungry thorns, all a spiky shade of green. But the seed pods were used in a variety of products, and Crowley was right— it was a dangerous plant, but if they worked hard, it would get them top marks. Aziraphale turned away from the textbook to face Crowley, who was watching him expectantly, and nodded.  
  
“It looks perfect,” he said, and Crowley’s cheeks went red under his glasses.  
  
“Great,” He said excitedly. “We’ve got break next— we could start researching— I mean if you want to, you’ve probably got something better to do—”  
  
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, cutting him off with a smile, “This was the first lesson of the year. I’d love to go research with you.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah,” Crowley mumbled, turning even redder than before. He leaned down to pick up his textbook, dark hair falling down and tangling with his sunglasses. Crowley reached up and tried to separate the two, textbook still lodged under his arm, while simultaneously reaching for his satchel. His textbook slipped out from under his arm and the hardback clattered to the floor with a loud bang, pages bending, and Crowley let out a strangled erk as he scrambled to to pick it up, face flushed and embarrassed. His sunglasses half slipped down his nose, and he hurriedly stopped to shove them back up, squeezing his eyes shut tight until he was sure they were on properly.  
  
“And you make fun of me for being clumsy,” Newt quipped, choosing this moment to appear behind Aziraphale. Crowley finally managed to pick up his textbook, and whacked Newt over the head with it.  
  
“That’s because you make me look like a fucking ballerina, Newt.” He shoved the offending textbook back into his worn satchel, trying to straighten the pages as he did so, and shook his head, trying to clear the hot haze of awkwardness. “Right. Let’s go to the library, then. And let’s never speak of this again.”  
  
The three of them made their way back across the quadrangle, Newt bemoaning his new partner, a girl named Mary who clearly thought he was an idiot (to which Crowley replied that she did kind of have a point, earning him an elbow in the ribs) and who also never shut up.  
  
Aziraphale listened to their animated banter with interest, but didn’t venture any commentary of his own- he didn’t have anything to say about the subject, really, other than the fact that Mary really never did stop talking. He wandered along, lost in his own thoughts, until Crowley gently gave him a shove with his elbow.  
  
“So what about you then, Aziraphale?” Crowley said, gazing up at him with the strangely intense darkness of his sunglasses.  
  
“Hmm?” Said Aziraphale, suddenly jolted back to reality and the small corner of Crowley’s Hufflepuff robes that was still brushing his skin. He jerked his hand up and awkwardly messed with his hair.  
  
“I was just— tell me some stuff about you. We’re partners now— I should know, right? And you seem to know plenty of stuff about me.”  
  
Aziraphale took a moment to consider. “I’m, ah— well, there’s not much to say, really. My parents are muggles, my grandmother was a squib, and I suppose I had magical relatives beforehand, but I never had any contact with any of them...”  
  
Crowley shook his head. “That’s your family. And our families,” he said with a steely determination, “do not define us. So who are you?”  
  
Aziraphale shrugged. Who was he? Well, no-one really, just a Ravenclaw with decent grades and a passion for dusty old books, especially the religious type. That wasn’t— it wasn’t a proper identity or anything, but that was all that really came to mind. Who you were— that tangled mess of emotions and fears and desires— was something that Aziraphale could barely understand, let alone manage to change from the fragile strands of consciousness into cold, plain English.  
  
Aziraphale loved words. But sometimes words just weren’t enough. That was why he read, he supposed, to give himself more words, more ways to say things, so that he could try and translate them, someday, all these swirling thoughts and ideas that played like symphonies in his head but came out of his mouth broken and stilted. He didn’t say any of this to Crowley, though, just managed to stammer out—  
  
“I— I love books. And reading. Old religious texts especially, I know it’s silly— but they’re fascinating, really, and especially with different translations of the same text, you really start to grasp the subtleties of language, and...” Aziraphale realised he’d been rambling. “Well, anyway,” he finished lamely. But Crowley beamed at him like he’d just said the most interesting thing in the world, and Aziraphale felt a warm glow unfurl in his chest, like maybe he was part of the group after all.  
  
They reached the library, and plonked themselves down on one of the tables meant for studying, Aziraphale quickly dumping his bag and heading over to the Herbology section with a brisk efficiency that came with five years of extensive browsing. Alone behind the familiar shelves, he breathed in the musty smell of old books, felt that easy, safe calm that being surrounded by words always gave him. For the first time, he really felt as though he was coming home.  
  
Extremely conscious of how much time he was taking, he grabbed a few textbooks and headed back over to Crowley and Newt, and gave an awkward wave with his arms full of books as he saw that Anathema had joined them. She waved back with distinctly more grace, and Aziraphale sat down and handed Crowley some of the textbooks, which he accepted with a smile.  
  
“What lesson did you have again?” He asked Anathema, fishing through his bag for his timetable.  
  
“Transfiguration,” she said, flicking back her dark hair with a grimace. “It went awfully, I’m all rusty...”  
  
Aziraphale nodded sympathetically and finally managed to pull out his timetable, scanning it for his next class.  
  
“Oh, excellent, I’ve got Charms,” he said enthusiastically. Professor Flitwick was also the head of Ravenclaw, and he was always willing to help his students reach the top grades. Charms made sense, too— all you had to do was combine the correct incantation with the correct wand movement, and you were all set. “What do you two have?” He added, glancing over at Crowley, who was pulling out an already impressively crumpled timetable from his satchel.  
  
“Defense Agaisnt the Dark Arts,” Crowley said, with a wry grin as he looked at Newt. “What do you reckon it’ll be this year, then?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Asked Aziraphale.  
  
Crowley’s smirk widened.  
  
“Have you noticed a slight pattern with our DADA teachers over the years? We have a new one every year, for one, and there’s always something wrong with them, too.” Newt rolled his eyes as Crowley continued this clearly familiar speech with a distinctly dramatic air. “Like, Moody was a death eater and had his soul sucked out, Lupin was a werewolf and got fired, Lockhart was just an idiot...”  
  
“Quirrel has You-Know-Who stuck on the back of his head,” Newt added helpfully.  
  
“Quirrel had the fucking Dark Lord on the back of his head, right!” Crowley continued enthusiastically. “So me and Newt have a little competition each year, where we have to say what’s wrong with the teacher, and how we think they’ll leave, and loser has to complete a forfeit.”  
  
Well. Not the most... diplomatic way of putting it, but Aziraphale had to admit it was accurate.  
  
“What kind of forfeit?” He asked, closing his textbook with a soft thud. Newt and Crowley’s grins both stretched to breaking point, and they started talking over one another.  
  
“There was the year Crowley had to run naked through the dorm—”  
  
“I was not naked, I had my glasses on, and anyway, what about the time you jumped in the lake?”  
  
“I fully thought the squid was going to kill me, and Snape looked just about ready to drown me personally, but let’s get back to you naked—”  
  
Crowley wiggled his eyebrows seductively.  
  
“Yes, do tell me more about how much you loved seeing me naked, Newt.”  
  
They all laughed, Aziraphale slightly awkwardly, not quite sure how he was supposed to act in this foreign situation. Crowley shook his head, suddenly businesslike again.  
  
“Right,” He said with a wicked grin at Aziraphale and Anathema, “Are you two going to join in, then?”  
  
Anathema shrugged, dark hair slipping over her shoulders.  
  
“Might as well,” she said, tapping a ballpoint pen against the desk as she thought. (Anathema flatly refuser to use quills, finding them silly, cruel to animals, and a colossal waste of money, and instead arrived at school each year with a bulk set of ballpoints.) “All right... I reckon Umbridge is some kind of toad-monster thing. And she’ll...she’ll get eaten by a hippogriff,” she said decisively, earning her a smattering of applause from the group.  
  
“All right, I’ll go next,” said Crowley. “I mean, Umbridge is obviously some kind of spy—”  
  
“You say that every year!” Newt said, with a distinctly fed-up air.  
  
“That’s because I’m right every year,” Crowley said, waggling a pencil at Newt. “Moody— or should I say Crouch— was a spy, and so was Quirrel. That’s fifty percent of the teachers we’ve had!”  
  
“Just because you have a thing for James Bond movies...” Newt grumbled.  
  
“James Bond?” Aziraphale asked, surprised. Yet another thing he wouldn’t have associated with Crowley. James Bond was such a distinctly muggle concept that he wouldn’t have thought Crowley would have even heard of the fictional spy.  
  
“I used to watch them with my mum. When I was younger.” Crowley shrugged, cheeks going red again. “I also think Umbridge’ll have some kind of horrific Harry Potter-related death.” He added, quickly changing the subject.  
  
“That’s mean,” Aziraphale protested, and Crowley shrugged with a grin.  
  
“It’s accurate, though. So what’s your theory, Newt?”  
  
“I like the monster theory,” Newt said speculatively, with a not-too subtle glance in Anathema’s direction. “So I’ll say that she’s, uh... a vampire.” He caught Crowley snickering, and whacked him on the head with a textbook, earing a pained squeak from Aziraphale. “It’s more likely than her being double-oh-eleven, or whatever. And I think she’ll run off with her secret werewolf lover or something.”  
  
“It’s double-oh-seven,” Crowley corrected fussily, while Aziraphale carefully prised the textbook out of Newt’s hands, before realising that everyone was looking at him. He froze in the stark weight of their gazes for a moment, like a deer trapped in headlights, before realising that he was supposed to offer up a theory now.  
  
“Ah. Well. I think... well, Umbridge is definitely a ministry agent, but that’s not really a theory after her speech last night...”  
  
“So take it further,” suggested Crowley. “Make her, like, an evil government agent who’s come to brainwash children or something.”  
  
Aziraphale smiled thankfully at his saviour.  
  
“Right, I’ll do that then, she’s here to make us into some kind of evil army... and then she’ll leave because her cover’s been compromised, and she has to flee.”  
  
“So, those are our theories for this year, then,” Crowley said, looking round at their group of four. “This is normally where Newt and I shake hands, but that’s a bit more complicated with the four of us...”  
  
They ended up doing an awkward four-way handshake across the table, before it was time for Crowley and Newt to head off to DADA and start putting their theories to the test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is break a thing at Hogwarts?? I honestly can't remember, but I quite like this chapter, so let's pretend it is.
> 
> Also you know what would be really fun?? If halfway through the herbology project, the wizarding exam board decided that children were talking about the project outside of lessons, and decided that it no longer counted for your grade, but you still had to spend TWENTY HOURS doing it for no apparent reason. That would be wonderful. (I'm about halfway through my comp sci programming project, and it's quite good fun, but... I am Bitter)
> 
> As ever, thanks so much for reading!! Thank you for all the lovely kudos and comments, and just for thinking this looked interesting enough to click on :) I really do appreciate it.
> 
> Have a nice day/night!


	6. Chapter 6

The Hufflepuffs streamed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, where Professor Umbridge was sat perched at her desk with that same, almost predatory sickly-sweet enthusiasm, a fuzzy pink cardigan wrapped around her shoulders.

“Now, good morning students,” she trilled, and received a mumbled response of mixed degrees of enthusiasm. Umbridge gave an almost childlike pout. “I said, good morning, class.”  
  
This time the response was slightly louder, but distinctly less enthusiastic.  
  
Professor Umbridge simpered and walked over to the blackboard, and Crowley noticed that even her shoes— an obnoxiously shiny pair of pumps— were pink. He rolled his eyes, safely hidden behind his glasses.  
  
“Now then,” said Umbridge from the front of the class. “Wands away.”  
  
This was met with more groans as the class collectively resigned themselves to an hour of boredom. Professor Umbridge deigned to ignore this as she smartly tapped her short, stubby wand on the blackboard. Crowley watched in sullen boredom as infuriatingly neat, swirly handwriting began to spell out CHAPTER ONE: BASICS FOR BEGINNERS.  
  
Umbridge continued to give them all that sickening smile.  
  
“Now, I understand you’ve all had a very disrupted and at times downright inappropriate education when it comes to this subject... but never fear, because this year, you will all be given a proper education in Defense Against the Dark Arts, following a curriculum that the ministry has deemed the most appropriate for you.”  
  
There was something about that tone, like she was speaking to a bunch of three year olds, coupled with the blatant ministry propaganda that seemed to leave her mouth every five seconds, that really made Crowley want to throw something at her.  
  
Umbridge finished her unnecessarily lengthy explanation on just how they were supposed to read in silence, and then looked around the class expectantly. Something about her smile seemed to go static and frozen when it landed on Crowley.  
  
“Mr Jaeger,” she said sharply, and it took Crowley a few moments to realise that she meant him. He got called a few different names— Anthony, Crowley, Crawly, even— but no one, least of all himself, was particularly keen on reinforcing his ties to the Jaeger family.  
  
“It’s Crowley,” he corrected anyway, but Umbridge’s eyes turned steely and she ignored him, powering on.  
  
“Mr Jaeger,” she continued, “we do not wear sunglasses in class.”  
  
Crowley sat there, stunned. He’d never had any trouble about his sunglasses. Never. Not since the scared and awkward letter he’d written to Dumbledore the summer he’d turned eleven, begging to be allowed to wear them at school, that still made him flush with embarrassment even now. No-one at Hogwarts, barring Hastur and Ligur for obvious reasons, had ever seen his eyes, and that was how Crowley liked it. He got enough shit for being some kind of evil monster as it was. He really didn’t need any more.  
  
Crowley realised Umbridge was still waiting for a reply.  
  
“I’m...I always wear my sunglasses,” He managed to get out, still unsure if this was some kind of stupid joke. Umbridge gave him another faux-patient smile.  
  
“I’m sure you do, Mr Jaeger, but not in my classroom, please,” She trilled. “Now, if you would kindly take them off and turn to chapter one...”  
  
“No, I mean I never take my sunglasses off,” Crowley repeated, finally finding his voice. “Even in lessons. Ask any of the other teachers, they’re all fine with it.”  
  
“It’s true, Professor, he does,” Newt piped up, and Crowley shot him a grateful look. “He’s never had to take them off, even for flying.”  
  
Umbridge’s smile was rapidly decreasing in size.  
  
“Mr. Pulsifer, I expect you to put up your hand up in class before you speak. And that goes for you as well, Mr Jaeger.”  
  
“It’s Crowley,” He repeated, the words feeling slightly too loud as they left his mouth, but his panic threatened to overwhelm him. She wasn’t going to make him take off his glasses, was she? Not in front of the whole class like this— he didn’t think he could handle that. Crowley clutched protectively at his frames. “And I’m not taking off my bloody glasses, all right? Go talk to Dumbledore about it if you want.”  
  
Umbridge’s smile was back, as though someone was forcibly pulling at the corners of her mouth.  
  
“Mr Jaeger—”  
  
“Crowley—”  
  
“Would you please stay behind after the lesson so we can discuss this further, hmm? And now, chapter one...”  
  
The rest of the lesson passed in a sullen blur as Crowley desperately tried and failed to absorb any information from the textbook, which seemed to have been written by the world’s most pretentious git. Well, what do you expect, with a name like Wilbert bloody Slinkhard, Crowley thought gloomily, flicking the textbook closed to read the name embossed on the cover. The man sounded like some kind of god-awful stripper who made constant snake-themed puns.  
  
Snake. And then that had him thinking about his eyes again. Crowley fiddled with the frames, like he was trying to reassure himself that they were still securely covering his eyes. He sighed, and tried to refocus in the textbook, but now all he could picture was Wilbert’s stripper routine, complete with giant snakeskin boots and a boa constrictor wrapped around his neck.  
  
He had to admit it wasn’t the most unpleasant mental image to have.  
  
After what felt like a small eternity, the bell rang and the rest of the class trickled out, leaving Crowley sat alone at his desk. Newt waved at him as he left, and Crowley weakly waved back, and then the door slammed, and he was alone. With Umbridge.  
  
Crowley remained at his desk, clutching his quill until his knuckles turned white. He kept his gaze focused straight ahead, at the blackboard, and tried to get his breathing under control. This was— this was a teacher. At Hogwarts, of all places. Nothing was going to happen. She’d tell him off, maybe take a few points of Hufflepuff, which while, yes, annoying, was hardly the end of the world. And then he’d leave, and get dinner, and that would be that.  
  
Umbridge walked over, face contorted into a disapproving pout.  
  
“Now, Mr Jaeger, you really must work on respecting your elders, hmm? This— talking back and blatant disobedience is hardly appropriate for a first-year student, let alone a fifth year. If you ever want to pass your O.W.L.s, young man, I suggest you learn to follow the rules.”  
  
“It’s Crowley,” he burst out, unable to restrain himself any longer. “And I’m not very likely to pass my bloody O.W.L. anyway, am I, since we’ll be reading this bloody textbook all year in preparation for a mainly practical exam—”  
  
“Mr Jaeger—” Umbridge interrupted, voice regaining that dangerous hint of steel.  
  
“Would you stop calling me that— and anyway, I haven’t done anything wrong, except wear the same sunglasses I’ve worn to every class every day for the past five years, so if you could just leave me the Hell alone—”  
  
“Mr Jaeger—”  
  
“My name. Is. Crowley.”  
  
There were pink spots colouring Umbridge’s cheeks. They match her outfit, Crowley thought vaguely, irritation killing off any common sense he had left.  
  
“That is ten points from Hufflepuff, Mr Jaeger. It may be more, if you do not explain to me why you made such a ridiculous fuss when asked to remove your sunglasses.”  
  
Crowley’s hands flew up to defend himself.  
  
“Wha— I don’t have to— I’m not— _no_. Look, my sunglasses are staying on, all right? If you have a problem with that, go take it up with Dumbledore. Can I go now? I’m missing lunch.”  
  
Professor Umbridge continued to look at him with that intensely patronising fake concern, and then, before Crowley realised what she was doing, she had grabbed his sunglasses off his face. Instinctively, Crowley grabbed hold of her wrist, pulled it tight, trying to get them back.  
  
It took a few seconds for the gravity of the situation to sink in. Crowley sat there, still with the Slinkhard book sprawled on his desk, with Umbridge’s wrist held as tight as he could manage, breathing heavily as she stared directly into his eyes, furious. Even as he was still holding her, heart racing, he could see the shift in her expression as she stared at him, the unsaid freak spelled out clear as day as she looked at his eyes for longer than anyone else had in about six years.  
  
His eyes—  
  
Crowley hastily let go of Umbridge’s wrist, pushed back against the chair to try and make himself smaller.  
  
“I’m sorry, Professor. I’m so— I didn’t think— can I please have my glasses back now?” The last sentence came out as a pathetic squeak, and Crowley furiously blinked back tears. No. No fucking way. This woman had already seen his eyes, ripped away his one concealment, his last, desperate pretense at playing normal. He wasn’t going to let her see him cry, too.  
  
Umbridge was still staring at him with a blank kind of fury in her glassy eyes, rotating her wrist, the skin of which had turned a patchy, mottled red. Crowley’s breath came in gaspy, panicked spurts. He was so, so dead.  
  
“That’s another twenty points from Hufflepuff, Mr Jaeger,” she said, wielding his uncle’s name like a weapon. Crowley couldn’t even find the strength to contradict her this time. “Assaulting a teacher... this is grounds for expulsion, you know.”  
  
Crowley wasn’t sure if his heart was still beating. Expulsion? From Hogwarts? He’d be stuck in the dark, crushingly empty halls of his uncle’s mansion year round, with no escape, not even the faint hope that someday he’d get to go back to Newt and making stupid jokes and having half a castle between him and Hastur and Ligur, and more importantly, having an entire bloody country between him and his uncle. Suddenly, Crowley was eight years old again, still reeling from the loss of his mother, desperately lost and alone as Hastur’s fist had hit him for the first time. The sensation of skin against marble, the feel of his uncle’s hand striking him in the face—  
  
And hold on, could Umbridge even do that? A sudden surge of clear-headedness somehow managed to break through Crowley’s white wave of panic. He just had to calm down the situation. Professor Sprout would have to be contacted before any expulsions could take place, and she wouldn’t — she wouldn’t do that to Crowley. Would she?  
  
“Please,” Crowley managed to choke out. “Please don’t, I’ll do anything, please—” He was about to do something very stupid, he could feel it. Like swear at Umbridge. Or throw something. Or cry.  
  
Umbridge tensed, as if nearing some invisible line.  
  
“This is your one warning, Mr Jaeger.” She said, with a voice like ice. “You will behave impeccably in every lesson from now on, or there will be dire consequences. And you will report to my office every night for detention until I tell you otherwise.”  
  
She stood up, began to magically wipe the board clean with her wand.  
  
“Now, put on your glasses, and get out of my classroom.”  
  
Crowley pulled on his shades, pathetically grateful for the sudden privacy of darkness as his pupils dilated, quickly grabbed his things and legged it before she could change her mind and expel  him after all.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not uploading yesterday!! I went to see the crimes of grindlewald last night, and it was... not great. I felt like the core story was all right, but there were too many characters that we were meant to care about, and this just meant that none of them could really grow or connect with me in any meaningful way.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and please do leave kudos or comments to let me know what you thought! <3


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale walked into the great hall after a frustratingly difficult charms lesson, still trying to figure out what, exactly, was wrong with his wand movement. He was surprised to find that Anathema wasn’t at their customary seats at the end of the Slytherin table, but had moved to the Hufflepuff table, opposite Newt. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was interrupting anything or not, but there was an empty seat next to Anathema, and frankly, he didn’t particularly have anyone else to sit with, so he walked over to join them. Anathema smiled at him as he sat down, and he knew he was okay. 

 “Where’s Crowley?” He asked, noticing the other empty chair next to Newt, who sighed and rolled his eyes. 

 “You know how we had Defence Against the Dark Arts with that new Umbridge woman?” 

 Aziraphale nodded, unsure of where this was going. 

 “So, is she a spy, then?” He asked, trying to make light of the situation. But Newt shook his head, not in the mood for jokes. 

 “Nah, she’s much worse... I mean, we spent the lesson reading mindlessly from a textbook, for one, so that was  _thrilling_ , but she decided to have a proper go at Crowley for his sunglasses.”

 “Really?” Said Aziraphale, surprised. No-one ever bothered Crowley about his sunglasses. It was the one thing about him that had always annoyed Aziraphale slightly. “So did he take them off?”

 Newt shook his head with a resigned expression. 

 “God, no. I’ve been his best friend for these last five years, and I’ve never seen his eyes. He waits until after lights out to take off his glasses in the dorms, and he even wore them when he had to do that dare naked, remember?” Newt shrugged. “He’s really touchy about them. But anyway, yeah, he refused, and Umbridge made him stay behind after class.” 

 Aziraphale made a considering  _humph_ noise, and leaned forwards to grab a sandwich. Just at that moment, Crowley burst in, cheeks flushed and a blotchy red, glasses tilted on his face, like they’d been hastily shoved on. Crowley came and sat opposite Aziraphale, throwing his bag on the ground with an unnecessary amount of force. 

 “How’d it go?”  Newt asked, the copious amounts of toast in his mouth somehow dampening the concerned-friend feeling somewhat. 

 “Oh, just  _grand,”_ Crowley said bitterly, and began attacking a piece of toast with a butter knife. “Thirty points from Hufflepuff, and detention every night until further notice. Just what I wanted for my first day.”

 “What happened? Was it just for wearing your sunglasses, or...” Aziraphale  asked hesitantly, unable to restrain his curiosity. 

 Crowley picked at his toast and decided that if there was one thing he could not abide, it was the awkward, condescending pity he’d get if he told the truth. So he just shrugged, drained and miserable and absolutely dreading that evening.

 “Sunglasses, yeah. Well, that and the fact that she’s a miserable old bag.”

 Newt snorted and grabbed what had to be about his sixteenth piece of toast. “Any breakthroughs on our theories yet?”

 Crowley shrugged again. “Maybe the spy thing? Or your ministry spy theory,” he added generously, giving Aziraphale a tired grin. “You’re right, it  _is_ shady how angry she got about my glasses. And, you know, spies do tend to wear sunglasses a lot. Maybe it’s some sort of lingering prejudice?” Crowley was wildley aware that he was spewing pure nonsense, just desperately trying to move the conversation forward, but it seemed to take everyone’s mind off what had just happened between him and Umbridge— like if he kept quiet about it, the whole stupid wrist-grabbing thing would just become another mortifiying figment of his imagination.  Aziraphale gave him a considered nod, like he was taking what Crowley had said seriously. Crowley wasn’t really sure what to think of the Ravenclaw yet. But he wanted to like him, and that was a start. 

 “Sorry if it’s too personal— I mean, we’ve barely known each other for a day, and everything, but— why do you wear your glasses all the time? I’ve always wondered...” Aziraphale  trailed off, well aware that he was rambling again and hating himself for it, and tried in vain to gauge Crowley’s facial expression. Crowley just gave a listless sort of shrug. Why did he wear his glasses? To hide. To feel safe behind his shields of glass. To be able to look in the mirror without having some kind of mental breakdown. But he kept his face as blank as possible, and tried to keep his voice light. 

 “I have weird eyes.”

 It was a non-answer, and they both knew it. Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. 

 “What kind of eyes?”

 Crowley really couldn’t do it. Especially not after what had just happened. Aziraphale seemed nice, really nice, and he’d make a great Herbology partner, but this was... this was... he just felt so empty. Drained. And talking about this now would just hollow him out further, until all that was left of him was a cracked shell. 

 “The kind I don’t want to talk about,” he said, slightly more sharply than he’d meant. Aziraphale looked taken aback, and just kind of awkwardly nodded. 

 Anathema cleared her throat. “So,” She said, steering the conversation out of stormy waters with an expert hand, “thoughts on the pathetically low standards of journalism in the daily prophet lately?”

 The rest of lunch passed with easy, animated chatter, and Crowley almost felt himself relax. Almost. 

 

If Crowley had been in a bad mood before, it only got progressively worse as he realised just how out of practice he’d gotten over the summer. By the end of Potions, he had resigned himself to failing all his O.W.L.s and spending eternity living in the Jaeger mansion. Also, in this nightmare scenario, Umbridge had somehow married his uncle. When Snape finally finished his lecture about his ridiculously high standards for their O.W.L.s, Crowley quickly packed his things with a sigh of relief and joined Newt in the throng of students exiting the classroom. 

 “So, dinner and then detention, is it?” Newt asked, with a sympathetic glance in Crowley’s direction. Crowley groaned. He’d been so absorbed in his nightmarish fantasy of Umbridge and his uncle making out while Crowley scrubbed the floor like some kind of snakier version of Cinderella in sunglasses, that he’d almost forgotten about the very real nightmare that awaited him. 

 “Ugh. Yeah. I’ll see you in the common room afterwards tonight, I suppose.” He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically. “If I survive, that is...”

 Newt laughed, and the pair walked off to the dining hall. They met up with Anathema and Aziraphale on the way there, who had come from Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, respectively. 

 “You’ve got some rather illustrious company for detention tonight,” Anathema informed him as they turned the corner into the great hall. Crowley raised his eyebrows. 

 “Oh yeah? Who?”

 “Harry Potter,” Anathema said, lowering her voice slightly as they passed the Gryffindor table. “Apparently he completely lost it, called Umbridge a liar, and started screaming about Cedric Diggory.”

 “Wow,” said Crowley, mildly impressed. “That almost makes me look normal. Hey, do you think Umbridge is going to split us up, or is he going to be my nice totally non-crazy detention buddy from now on?” 

Anathema shook her head. “‘No, his detention is before yours, I checked...”

 “Your dedication to gossip is impressive. Now, I still feel pretty shitty about the concept of spending lots and lots of evenings with Umbridge, so I’m going to stuff my face with tons of—” Crowley sat down and squinted at the silver dish in front of him— “Whatever this grey thing is, and hope that helps.” Aziraphale let out a small laugh at that, and Crowley grinned awkwardly at the Ravenclaw, who’d been rather quiet all evening. “So how’s your first day been, then?”

 Aziraphale gave Crowley a shy smile in return. 

 “Gosh, fairly miserable, really, I wish they’d stop going on about O.W.L.s, as if everyone’s not stressed enough already...” this earned him a series of groans, and everyone started to chatter animatedly about the utter injustice of exams and the frankly ridiculous amounts of homework they already had. 

 Eventually, dinner finished and Crowley reluctantly said his goodbyes, and then began the long walk back up to the DADA classroom, the happy, full feeling he’d gotten from chatting with his friends at dinner fading with every step.

He knew it wouldn’t be that bad. Logically. It was a school detention, and yes, Umbridge had made him feel like crap at lunch, but she hadn’t actually  _done_  anything. It was hardly her fault that Crowley was an emotional wreck. So he just had to calm down, keep it together, learn to keep his mouth shut, and somehow get his grades up at the same time. Maybe Aziraphale could help him out, Crowley thought, and the glow returned slightly. Herbology looked like it was going to be brilliant this year, and he already had tons of ideas for their project. Lost in thought on the watering schedule of the Venomous Tentacula, he barely noticed that he’d arrived at Umbridge’s office until he was already knocking mechanically on her door. He opened it, and almost gagged. Pink. Pink everywhere, and... were those  _kittens_? Those were kittens, gambolling sickeningly on ceramic plates on the walls, and Crowley shuddered. He couldn’t believe he’d almost cried in front of someone with interior decorating skills this bad. 

 Umbridge gave a smile that reminded Crowley of a snake rearing to pounce. 

 “Ah, good evening, Mr Jaeger.”

 Crowley took a deep breath and tried to mentally push down his heart rate. 

 “Professor Umbridge,” he began, in the most formal and forcibly polite tone he’d ever used in his life, “Jaeger is my father’s name. I’ve never met my father, but as you might be aware, he is, er, not a great human being and is currently in Azkaban. I’ve always used my mother’s maiden name, which is Crowley. So I would much prefer it if you would call me that. Please.” Umbridge gave a thin-lipped smile but did not deign to respond, and Crowley wearily resigned himself to a year of being called Jaeger. Just what he needed.  _It doesn’t matter_ , he told himself.  _In three years I’ll bugger off and go somewhere where no-one knows who I am or who I happen to be related to_. But it did matter. Just a little. It was just another sign telling him that he’d never escape the bastards who called themselves his family. Just another reminder that he’d never really be able to get away from his past. 

 Crowley stood there for a moment, not sure if he was supposed to sit down or not, and was suddenly aware of the fact that he had so many  _limbs_ , Christ, and what was he supposed to do with them all and what was he supposed to do with his hands and should he cross them or something, and then Umbridge gave an infuriating  little  _hem_ -hem noise that tested Crowley’s forced patience to its limit, and she gestured to a seat, and he sat. 

 Umbridge strode over to the blackboard in her dinky little pink shoes, and tapped the board smartly with her wand. Ostentatiously cursive handwriting began to spill across the board, and Umbridge turned to face Crowley, who was hunched awkwardly at his desk. She tapped her wand, which was short and stubby, against her hand in a motion that reminded Crowley of a prison warden with their baton. 

 “Right then, Mr Jaeger,” Umbridge said, walking briskly over to Crowley on her small heels and handing him a sheet of parchment and an unusually sharp, malicious looking black quill. “After our little incident this afternoon, I think it’s clear that you are in dire need of some discipline.” The writing stopped spreading over the board, leaving behind the sentence  _I must respect my elders_. “Oh, and the quill is special. You won’t be needing any ink.” She turned away, and went to sit down at her desk. 

 Crowley’s shoulders sagged with relief. Lines. He could do lines. 

 “How many times should I write it out, Professor?” 

 “As many as is necessary, Mr Jaeger,” Umbridge trilled, busily writing with a quill of her own, which was, of course, bright pink. “Now off you go.”

 Crowley rolled his eyes, but picked up the quill and got to work, pressing the nib to the page with a sigh, and forming the first  _I_ with the largest handwriting he could muster, figuring that if he filled up the page faster, Umbridge would be more likely to let him out. But the second he’d written the letter, it was all he could do not to let out a yelp as he felt a searing pain on his hand. Crowley looked incredulously from the red  _I_ on his page to the red  _I-_ shaped cut on his hand, which swiftly began to heal up and vanish into nothingness as he watched in shock. Jesus. Maybe Umbridge and his uncle really  _would_ hit it off. Thank God— well, not God, per se, but  _Someone_ , anyway— for the fact that Hogwarts didn’t do parents evenings. 

 Another of those infuriating little  _hem-hem_  noises broke Crowley out of his reverie, and he looked up at Umbridge’s expectant face. 

 “Why aren’t you writing, Mr Jaeger?” 

  _Because I don’t particularly enjoy slicing up my own skin, thanks_ , Crowley thought bitterly, but he just sort of awkwardly shrugged before reluctantly starting to drag pen over paper, unwilling to wince or let Umbridge see in any way that she’d hurt him, that his heart was pounding and he felt like he’d be physically sick every time he saw his skin open up, as the letters got slower and slower to close up and his skin became red and painful. He knew, with that awful sort of certainty he’d always had from the first time his uncle had raised his fists to him, that he couldn’t tell anyone. Because then Umbridge would tell people about how he’d grabbed her wrist, and then he’d be expelled from Hogwarts, or okay, maybe she wouldn’t do that, but she could definitely tell people about his eyes, and then he’d get all the  _looks_ , the pitying and the mocking and the staring and the avoidance he always got but worse, magnified somehow, with all his walls stripped down. And so instead he sat there and carved into his flesh until Umbridge finally let him leave with his skin raw and red, when he pulled down his sleeve and went back to the Hufflepuff dorm rooms, where he tumbled into bed and took off his glasses with his eyes screwed tight shut. 

 It was a long time before he fell asleep. His head was filled with the black numbness of disbelief, of some desperate urge to deny what was going on, to pretend that in the morning everything would be fine again. But he’d have another detention with Umbridge tomorrow, he realised with a groan, and the day after and the day after that in an endless cycle of misery, an infinite number of dates rolling through his head, until he shoved a pillow over his head and finally passed out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is a bit lighter, I promise!
> 
> As ever, thanks so much for reading, and please leave kudos or comments to let me know what you thought, it truly makes my day whenever I get an email notification. 
> 
> But thanks for sticking with me so far!! This was definitely the hardest chapter for me to write, and went through about five drafts. It's finally in a shape where I'm at least partly happy with it, but please do let me know what you thought!


	8. Chapter 8

 Aziraphale woke up at the crack of dawn the next day, well-rested and ready for action. Today, the second school day of the year, was the day: the five-year anniversary of his and Anathema’s meeting and epic fight for the Hogwarts library’s one and only tattered copy of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. And every year, without fail, they would duel with every spell they knew for possession of the book. 

 The rules, imposed in second year after Aziraphale had almost creased the corner of Hogwarts: A History in his excitement, were thus: from the moment the library opened, it was a race to be the first to take out the book. Whoever did so the fastest won the right to choose the place and positions of their duel, which would commence during lunch. Whomsoever won the duel proved themselves worthy of being the rightful owner of the book for the full year. 

 Why did they both want an old, worn book of prophecies, anyway? Well, for Anathema, it was simple: she was a bona-fide descendant of Agnes Nutter (which, yes, fine, made Aziraphale fairly jealous) and although what was so special about the Agnes Nutter prophecies was that Agnes had been singularly gifted in seeing the whole of time in its broad scope with perfect clarity, that was quite a bit of information to convey in one book. Agnes had therefore stuck to what she had found significant; but what a witch from the fifteenth century found important compared to what were considered major historical events tended to differ somewhat. Still, Agnes’ own descendants were typically mentioned, and they of all people had the best chance of figuring out what the words meant. 

 So for generations, the Nutters or the Devices or the what-have-yous had spent their time at Hogwarts taking out the one and only copy of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies, trying to find some new interpretations, and slowly amassing a veritable treasure trove of indexing cards on the subject. 

 Aziraphale’s claim on the book was a little more suspect: it was a book. It was, old, and beautiful, and as far as anyone knew, the one and only copy. An impressed Madam Pince had informed him that he was the only non-descendant of Agnes Nutter’s to ever take it out. But Aziraphale didn’t see why anyone wouldn’t be fascinated by the book— it was full of antiquated, positively fascinating spellings, and hidden behind all this stodgy language was the future, the actual future, all the outcomes and possibilities that he agonised over. 

 Aziraphale checked the the small, frilly little pocket-watch that he kept on his bedside table. The library opened about halfway through breakfast, and so in past years, he and Anathema had made wild dashes through the dining hall in an effort to get to the library first, sometimes missing breakfast altogether. But breakfast, as he’d been told sternly over and over throughout the summer, was the most important meal of the day, and was needed to help you focus throughout the day. So this year, Aziraphale was going to get to the library extra early, and hope that Madame Pince would take pity on him and let him in early. He checked his watch: quarter past five. Breakfast was at nine. Perfect. 

 Aziraphale got dressed as quietly as possible and then made his way out of the dormitory, lugging a book with him so he’d have something to do with his time. He felt excited, ready: he was going to win this year. He just knew it. Maybe one of the prophecies would cover the topics coming up in his History of Magic O.W.L.

 He furtively made his way to the library: he knew you weren’t supposed to be out of bed after hours, but he wasn’t sure when exactly after hours just became quite early in the morning. Aziraphale felt a jangle of nerves in his stomach, but, as he tried to reassure himself, Gryffindor would inevitably win the house cup anyway due to Dumbledore’s clear bias, so house points didn’t really matter, and he could always just claim ignorance. He was still slightly worried— Aziraphale had never been in serious trouble in his life, had never even gotten a detention, and wasn’t quite sure what would happen if he did, but assumed it would be bad. 

 But Anathema certainly wouldn’t hesitate to go and get that book because she was scared of what would happen if she broke the rules. And Aziraphale flatly refused to lose to Anathema this year. And anyway, Aziraphale reasoned with himself, Crowley had just gotten himself put in detention for the foreseeable future, and he’d seemed a tad put out at lunch, yes, but otherwise fine. So. 

 Aziraphale arrived at the library, which looked dark, dismal and extremely closed, plonked himself down with a sigh, and began to read his book on goblin-wizard race relations. It wasn’t the most interesting of subjects, but it was bound to come up in his O.W.L.s and the sooner he started getting the content into his head, the better. 

 Despite all expectations, by eight o’clock, Aziraphale was fully engrossed in the unjust imprisonment of Ug the Unreliable, and he barely even noticed Madam Pince’s arrival until she all but tripped over him.  

 Ah, it’s that time of year again, is it?” Asked Madam Pince, voice utterly devoid of even the vaguest trace of enthusiasm. Aziraphale didn’t even think she was particularly upset, although she certainly didn’t _like_  his and Anathema's little competition— that was just her voice.  Madam Pince was one of Hogwarts’ least popular teachers, bearing a strong resemblance to a longer-haired, marginally less greasy version of Snape—grease would damage the books, of course— with several rumours going round school about her supposed torrid affair with Filch. She was extremely stringent about the rules, and was known to throw students out of the library for even the most minor of infractions— but she was passionate about preserving and maintaining Hogwarts’ collection of books for generations to come, and this had earned her Aziraphale’s undying respect. Madam Pince, for her part, was also rather fond of the scruffy Ravenclaw; he was one of the few students who treated the library books with an adequate amount of respect, and so the two of them got along quite well. 

 Madame Pince shook her head with weary resignation, and beckoned over to Aziraphale with a bony, long-fingered hand as she used an ornate key to unlock the double doors to the library. “I trust that this silly tussle of yours will in no way damage the book?”

 Aziraphale shook his head vehemently. “Of course not, Madam Pince. I’ll treat her with the utmost respect.” 

 The worn copy of the nice and accurate prophecies, as Anathema and Aziraphale had decided some years ago, was definitely a she— a distinctive sort of Agnes-y air still hung around it. 

 Madam Pince nodded approvingly.  

“Well, I suppose you may as well come in and get it now, then. I had something to ask you about, anyway.” 

 Thrilled with the success of his plan, Aziraphale put away Ug the Unreliable, and followed Madam Pince into the cool, quiet air of the library. Aziraphale scrunched il his eyes and took a deep breath, taking in the dry scent of paper and ink. There was something so incredibly reassuring about being surrounded by books, a steady weight on his shoulders that told him he was safe. With a sheepish half-smile at Madam Pince, Aziraphale headed over to the all-too familiar shelf where The Nice and Accurate Prophecies had rested over the summer.  The book felt heavy and reassuring in his hands, and for the first time that year, Aziraphale felt like he'd succeeded at something. He took the book over to Madam Pince and watched as she scribbled his details into her ledger. She finished with a flourish, but before she gave Aziraphale his book back, she put down her pen, and gazed at him with piercing dark eyes.

 "As I think you know all too well, Mr Douglass, this is, in fact, your O.W.Ls year." Aziraphale nodded uncomfortably. He wished people would stop reminding him of that. But Madam Pince's mouth turned up slightly at the corners, the closest she ever came to smiling. "Well," she continued, "this is also the year that you really ought to start looking into your career options. And I would like you to know that there will always be a place for you here."

 Aziraphale blinked, confused. "As in... in Hogwarts?"

 There was the thin-lipped smile again, slightly wider this time. "More specifically, within the library. You truly cherish and respect books, and I think you would make an outstanding librarian." 

 Now Aziraphale was truly confused.  

"I'm— well, I’m honoured, of course, I really am— but I don’t think I’d make a very good librarian, really.” Aziraphale played nervously with a stray curl. “I mean, I worked with one of my cousins in his bookshop over the summer once, and I was terrible.”

 Madam Pince raised a pointy eyebrow. “Terrible how?”

 Aziraphale shook his head dramatically. “I didn’t want anyone else to buy any of the books— and I nearly completely ruined his filing system trying to hide away all of the good ones, to make sure no-one else could get them— I never would have even opened the shop, if I could have gotten away with it.” He looked up nervously at Madam Pince, expecting— well, he didn’t know what, really, but probably disappointment. But to his surprised, the thin-lipped smile had become a genuine, toothy one.

 “And do you think I enjoy handing out my precious tomes to grubby first-years? That’s exactly the type of attitude that I think would make you an excellent librarian, the sort of thing that no student dares to return their books late.” Aziraphale was beginning to smile too, despite himself. The possibility of spending his life with all these countless books— with the nice and accurate prophecies, that would show Anathema!— was, he had to admit, a very tempting one. Madam Pince leaned forward, her long hair sweeping over her desk. “And Aziraphale,” She said, “I honestly do not care how you do on your O.W.L.s. I know you are more than capable— not to mention extremely intelligent.”

 Aziraphale felt himself blushing, and hugged his book to his chest, letting the sharp corners push himself back to reality.

 “I— thank you, Madam Pince. Thank you very much. Could I— have some time to think about it?”

 “Of course. You can have all the time in the world.” Madam Prince gave him a final smile, and then Aziraphale took his book and rushed off to breakfast several hours early, ready to gloat at Anathema, but also to give himself some time to contemplate the offer he’d just been made.

 

For once in Aziraphale’s life, it was Anathema maniacally shoving toast into her face as he sauntered into the dining hall with The Book tucked under his arm and, he thought, a cool and collected air. It felt strange, as though Aziraphale had somehow wandered into some parallel universe. He slammed The Nice and Accurate prophecies down dramatically, and smirked in triumph.  Anathema’s eyes widened in shock as she tried to scream “FUCK!” through a mouthful of bread, which resulted in her choking, a very startled Newt shoving a goblet of pumpkin juice in Anathema’s general direction, which of course went everywhere, but Anathema downed the dregs anyway, coughing and flipping off Aziraphale as she did so. 

 “Oh all right, you win this round,” she said irritably. “But I’ll still smash you in the duel.” 

 Aziraphale laughed and sat himself down next to Crowley, who let out what sounded suspiciously like a snore, one hand propping up his head under a messy cloud of dark hair. 

 “We’ll see about that. I’ll be choosing our positions, remember, and you’ll end up with the sun directly in your eyes.”

 Anathema scowled again and took another swig of pumpkin juice. “Hmph. How did you get in, anyway? I went up right at the start of  breakfast, and Madam Pince said she’d be opening up later today.”

 Aziraphale gave his best impression of a nonchalant shrug. “She likes me better. Oh, and speaking of Madam Pince, I think she sort of offered me a job this morning...” He grabbed a piece of toast, and began buttering it enthusiastically, recounting his eventful morning as he did so. Crowley eventually regained consciousness and sat up blearily just as Aziraphale was beginning to speculate on duel positions for that afternoon. Anathema wryly raised an eyebrow in his general direction. 

“Sleep well, did we?”

 “Mmph. Well enough. Just not very long, seeing as I spent half the night with Umbridge. And not,” Crowley added, catching Newt’s meaningful glance, “in that way. I would rather sleep with a mountain troll.”

 “How was your detention, then?” Newt asked, moving on to what had to be about his eighth piece of toast that morning. 

 Crowley picked at the edge of the tablecloth. “Lines. All bloody evening. It was miserable.” 

 “What were you writing out, exactly?” Asked Aziraphale, who listened to stories of school punishments with the same level of fascinated disgust that people usually retained for watching documentaries about the world’s most horrific prisons. Crowley loosely waved a hand.

 “Oh, you know, respect your elders and all that.” He looked around as though a giant clock might materialise in front of him if he wished hard enough. “How long’s left of breakfast, by the way?”

 Aziraphale pulled out his trusty old pocket-watch. “About twenty minutes, I’d say.”

 Crowley nodded. “Excellent. Just enough time for a nap.” And he proceeded to rest his head on the desk and promptly pass out, the frames of his sunglasses digging into his arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, slightly less depressing! So sorry for not uploading yesterday, I had the draft all set up on my laptop and everything, and then I just fell asleep- mocks and stuff are finally starting up at school, so be prepared for lots more Aziraphale freaking out about owls :(
> 
> Thanks for reading and for all your lovely comments <3


	9. Chapter 9

Duels were, strictly speaking, not actually allowed on school grounds, but this was the one time of year where Aziraphale would bend (or, all right, break) the school rules. Most of the teachers knew what they were up to by now, anyway— Flitwick had given Aziraphale some brilliant advice on shielding charms the other day— but had accepted that neither of them had any desire to seriously injure the other, and tended to sort of look the other way, usually at whatever ridiculous thing Harry Potter was up to. (Aziraphale hated to admit it, but Crowley’s sardonic view of the boy who lived was really rather accurate. Someone or other was always trying to kill him. Which was awful, obviously, but also meant that teachers tended to care slightly less about two students having a friendly duel in some out-of-the way corner of the school grounds.)  
  
Aziraphale surveyed his surroundings with a grin. He’d picked excellently, if he did say so himself. He’d positioned himself at the top of a slight, gently sloping hill tucked away behind the greenhouses, with the vast, sun-speckled expanse of the lake behind it, a sea of silver in the afternoon sun. It was a proper September day— cold, but bright and crisp, the first hints of Autumn beginning to appear around them. And it would be on this September afternoon, Aziraphale thought to himself with grim determination, that he was going to emerge triumphant. He had to. He had, quite literally, the upper hand, having positioned himself at the top of the hill, with Anathema at the bottom, squinting up at him past the heavy afternoon sun and the glittering, ever so distracting surface of the lake. Aziraphale gave his two spectators/ impromptu judges for the afternoon a little wave; Crowley and Newt were sat a small distance away, legs outstretched in the long, bright green of the grass, the sun glinting merrily off Crowley’s sunglasses. Newt gazed longingly at Anathema, who didn’t look as though she was paying him much attention, but then again, maybe she just couldn’t see much of anything with the sun in her eyes. Aziraphale certainly hoped so. That would make this whole endeavour much easier. He took a deep breath. Pushed his curls out of his face, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and bowed. Anathema bowed back with a sharp, pointed smile on her face, the sort of smile that let Aziraphale know she’d been reading up on defensive spells all summer, while Aziraphale had been busy catching up on maths and science and all the muggle school things his parents thought he ought to know.  
  
And then they began.  
  
Before he even had time to think, Aziraphale was reflexively casting a shield charm, a great silvery barrier protruding in front of him, blocking whatever nasty purple thing Anathema had just fired at him. Aziraphale scowled. He always forgot just how fast Anathema was. And the annoying affinity for silent spells that children raised in Wizarding families always seemed to have. He resented being raised in a muggle household a little bit, sometimes. He also knew that now was definitely not the time to be dwelling on his upbringing. Not if he wanted that book.  
  
Aziraphale dismissed his own shield charm, and then quickly fired the stickfast hex, which Anathema narrowly dodged, shrieking “Impedimenta!” as she did so. Aziraphale cursed under his breath as the spell sent him flying backwards onto the ground, but cast _flippendo_ as he was doing so, sending Anathema flying as well. While she was down, he quickly scrambled upright, casting the jelly-legs jinx, which missed, and mentally berating himself as he did so. He had all the advantages, position-wise, as well as the psychological advantage of having found the book first. It was time he used them. But while he was contemplating this, Anathema successfully fired the bat-bogey hex at him, and Aziraphale doubled over, wand-free hand pressed to his nose, trying to prevent his now distinctly menacing bogeys from escaping, and also trying very hard not to stare sheepishly at Crowley and Newt, to see their reactions. He had to think, for Merlin’s sake.  
  
And then suddenly it came to him; Aziraphale doubled over as though he could no longer restrain the wriggling tendrils of snot, which gave him an excellent view of Anathema’s self-satisfied smirk down below, one hand over her eyes to block out the sun.  In one swift movement, he ripped away his hand, and before the slimy green monsters protruding from his nostrils could begin to attack him, he fired _expelliarmus_ and the jelly-fingers jinx at Anathema in quick succession. Anathema screamed a curse and fumbled for her wand with hopelessly out-of-control fingers, but Aziraphale pressed home on his advantage and used his brief moment of time to snottily mutter the counter-hex and get rid of his demonic green attackers.  
  
Nose now mercifully bat-free, Aziraphale strode forwards, a smile slipping out despite his best intentions, and _accio_ ’d Anathema’s wand towards him. It soared into his palm with a satisfying thwack, and Aziraphale stopped trying to hold back his smile. Anathema let out a small shriek of frustration, then shook her head and gave a wry smile.  
  
“All right then, you win this one, you bastard— but just you wait until next year...” Anathema strode the short distance over to Aziraphale, and shook his hand with a firm grip that would have made a CEO weep. “Go on then, you buzzard. Take my family heirloom.” She tilted her head over to Crowley, who’d come up behind Aziraphale, flourishing his arm out as he positively twirled into a mock bow, the book held aloft in his left hand. He looked practically ready to knight Aziraphale with the thing.  
  
Aziraphale laughed triumphantly, and took the book from Crowley’s outstretched hand, the afternoon light catching on the Hufflepuff’s jagged fingernails. Aziraphale grinned at him, feeling, briefly, brightly invincible, relishing the feeling of soft leather under his fingers.    
  
“Good duelling,” said Crowley, matching Aziraphale’s grin with a pointy one of his own. “I think I potentially slept through the explanation for why, exactly that was happening, and why not one teacher batted an eyelid, but very impressive nonetheless.”  
  
“Are you feeling slightly more awake now?”  
  
Crowley shrugged. “I mean, I slept all through history of magic, so I should be all right now. I just really can’t face another night of Umbridge, it was properly awful...”  
  
The four of them began to leisurely make their way back to the castle, Crowley and Aziraphale in front, the book clutched protectively under Aziraphale’s arm, with Newt and Anathema bringing up the rear, the latter potentially already planning her strategies for next year. The air was cool and clean, and ruffled through Aziraphale’s curls, but he’d given up on keeping them neat several years ago, and even that couldn’t dent his positively buoyant mood. Well, until he pulled out his timetable, wind playing leisurely round the edges, and saw that he had Defence Against the Dark Arts next lesson.

“I’ve got your favourite teacher next,” he said, showing it to Crowley, who groaned in sympathy. “Any advice?”  
  
Crowley shrugged, the movement angular and jerky. “Er, raise your hand before speaking, mentally prepare yourself for a textbook that makes Binns look fascinating, and maybe don’t bring your sunglasses,” he added wryly.  
  
Aziraphale laughed again. Impossibly, he and Crowley seemed to be getting on with an ease that Aziraphale had always found difficult to muster. Was he— could they be classed as friends yet? Aziraphale wasn’t sure. But he hoped that they would be.  
  
  
The Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson wasn’t as dull as Aziraphale had feared— it was worse. Rumours were already circulating about Umbridge’s penchant for giving people detention for approximately the next seven billion years, although they seemed to focus on Potter, rather than Crowley, which seemed to suit the Hufflepuff just fine— and as a result, the Ravenclaw class was dead silent, everyone reading Wilbert Slinkhard with a sullen intensity. It was, as Crowley had predicted, frustratingly dull, and Aziraphale caught his attention flagging several times before he dragged it back fiercely. Like it or not, he still had to do his DADA O.W.L this year, and all of this information was technically on the specification, which meant  Aziraphale had to know it. And the faster they read through the book, the faster they could move on to something else, although Aziraphale supposed that the silent reading did mean that he didn’t have to listen to the grating terror that was Umbridge’s voice all that much. So there was that.  
  
But after DADA came History of Magic, and even Aziraphale found it difficult to focus on the endless dull drone of Binns’ voice after having just already spent an hour forcing himself to stay awake. Aziraphale hoped desperately that DADA would somehow improve— he’d long since given up any hope of History doing the same— he couldn’t just tune out for two hours a week. He had exams. When the lesson finally ended, Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief, shoved his textbook into his satchel with a force that would have made Madame Pince flinch, and made his way down to dinner with a speed that belied his pudgy frame. Newt and Crowley were already there, the latter already eating his shepherd’s pie with grim determination before he had to head off for round two with Umbridge. After having spent an unreasonably long hour with her that afternoon, Aziraphale could understand Crowley’s frustration a little better, and he gave the scrawny Hufflepuff a sympathetic smile as he sat down and began heaping his own plate with a generous helping, making sure to get extra carrots and mince. Crowley paused his slog through the mashed potatoes to give Aziraphale a grin.

"The master duellist returns! Have a good afternoon?”

Aziraphale shook his head, spearing a carrot with expert ease.

“DADA and then History of Magic.” This earned him collective groans of sympathy from both Crowley and Newt. “What did you two have?”

“We both had Transfiguration, and then I had Care of Magical Creatures,” said Newt. “Hagrid isn’t here for some reason, which is a shame, because, you know, I quite like Hagrid, and also it meant we had to do actual work, can you imagine?”

Crowley clapped his hand to his breast melodramatically, halfway through a mouthful of mashed potato. “Work. At school. Someone call the Ministry.”

_Or just tell Umbridge_ , thought Aziraphale grimly, but instead he just turned to Crowley and asked what subject he’d had.

“Oh, Muggle Studies, it was all right, but I’ve got an essay due for Thursday, so fuck knows when that’s getting done...”

“Muggle Studies?” Aziraphale asked, surprised despite himself. He could see no conceivable reason for Crowley to take the class: if he shared the views of the rest of the Jaeger family, he wouldn’t want to take it, and if he took after his mother, then he really shouldn’t need to. Crowley shrugged, embarrassed, although he couldn’t quite explain why.

“Yeah, well. I haven’t lived in a muggle household since I was seven. I don’t want to forget. And besides,” he added quickly, feeling oddly vulnerable, “I plan to change my name and become a spy when I leave Hogwarts, so... marketable skills?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“Gosh, you’re going to have an absolutely brilliant careers meeting, aren’t you?”

Newt nodded in agreement.

“Shame you aren’t in Slytherin, could you imagine Snape’s face if you walked in and told him you wanted to be James Bond?” Crowley laughed, tilting back his head slightly to expose his slender neck, and turned over to look at his fellow Hufflepuff, who was currently drowning his shepherds pie with inordinate amounts of ketchup. Crowley caught sight of this, gagged, and immediately tried to grab the ketchup bottle from him.

“That’s absolutely _grim_ , you heathen—” he was cut off abruptly by Newt elbowing him in the ribs in order to protect his precious ketchup, which of course only made Crowley more determined to grab it, grabbing the base of the ketchup bottle, with the end result that even more ketchup ended up on Newt’s plate, as well as the table and Newt himself, who let out an outraged holler, yanked the bottle back sharply, and proceeded to slather Crowley’s entire face in ketchup. Aziraphale watched all of this with an expression of mild bemusement.

"You absolute wanker, I’m meant to be at Umbridge’s in about five minutes,” moaned Crowley, trying to wipe the ketchup off his face with the sleeve of his robe while simultaneously trying not to dislodge his glasses or expose the skin on the back of his left hand, which was still red and tender from last night, and prickled uncomfortably at the thought of having to go through that again. It was a delicate process.

“You started it,” replied Newt self-righteously, and Crowley raised the ketchup bottle threateningly in response. The whole scene looked vaguely like something straight out of Lord of the Flies, and of course Anathema chose this moment to finally arrive from her Arithmancy class, eyebrows disappearing dramatically behind her dark fringe. She slid down into the empty seat beside Aziraphale and shook her head wordlessly. Crowley relinquished the ketchup bottle and resumed wiping ketchup of his face, shrugging lightly as he did so.

“Well, you two had your duel earlier, me and Newt felt left out.” He tilted his face over to Aziraphale. “Did I get it all off?” Aziraphale shook his head, and gestured at Crowley’s cheek.

“No, you’ve got some there, sort of near your nose...” Crowley gave it another go, using his other sleeve this time, but missed by miles, and Aziraphale shook his head.  
“It’s still there, you need to try more— oh look, just let me do it,” said Aziraphale fussily, grabbing his napkin and leaning in. His finger brushed the other boy’s face, warm against Crowley’s smooth, cool skin. “There. All gone.” Crowley gave him a thankful smile, the tips of his ears going slightly red.

“I, ah, sort of forgot I had a napkin. Thanks.” He looked slightly sheepish, then his face seemed to freeze slightly for a second. “Oh—Umbridge—I have to go— bugger.” And he grabbed his bag, stood up awkwardly, slinging his stuff over his shoulder as he did so, gave Newt a parting whack on the head with the ketchup bottle as he did so, and then all but sprinted out of the Great Hall. Aziraphale watched him go with his hand still curled around the napkin. Anathema watched him with a funny sort of smile on her face.

“You really like him, don’t you?”

Aziraphale could feel himself going red. “I—er— _what_?”

Anathema rolled her eyes, but not unkindly. “Oh, calm down. You are allowed to have friends other than me, you know. For example, me and Newt are friends now, even though his ketchup usage physically hurts my soul.” Newt gave Anathema a wan thumbs up, and continued to eat his shepherd’s pie, which by now strongly resembled something out of a slasher flick, with disturbing gusto. Anathema shook her head again and turned to look at Aziraphale. “By the way, can I come and have a look at the book tonight? I know it’s early, but my mum has some new theories she wants me to check out and cross-reference about a prophecy that we think is either on another stock market crash, a Wizarding war, or a new brand of Honeydukes chocolate.”  
Newt looked slightly green, but Aziraphale couldn’t be sure if that was the prophecies or his dinner. 

"Yeah, er, I’m personally kind of rooting for the third one, I think.”

Anathema shrugged. “Well, we’ll probably only know what it was after the fact— that’s Agnes for you. Pedantically exact, but not particularly clear.”  
They finished dinner relatively quickly, neither Aziraphale nor Anathema particularly keen on looking at Newt’s food any more than necessary, before agreeing that they’d each go and do their own homework for about half an hour before Anathema would come over to Aziraphale’s dorm to have a look at the book. Aziraphale’s route back to the Ravenclaw common room took him past the currently empty DADA classroom, and he wondered briefly how Crowley was doing, before his head was completely filled with all the History of Magic he’d have to do to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you might think the ketchup thing is a bit of an exaggeration but like last week I watched a girl take a full packet of custard creams, beat them agains the table until she had this pasty yellow dust, and then proceeded to snort it so idk man teenagers just be like that sometimes
> 
> as always, thanks so much for reading and sticking with me so far and thanks as well for all your lovely, thoughtful comments!
> 
> please let me know what you thought and if that's too much effort then just leave some kudos :)


	10. Chapter 10

Half an hour later, Aziraphale was sat tapping his pen irritably against the desk he’d claimed as his own in the corner of the Ravenclaw common room, surrounded by a veritable rainbow of notes, bright and enticing, meant to make him remember things more easily, but which really just gave him a headache. How on earth was he expected to learn all of this, especially when he had so many other subjects to revise for? Aziraphale found himself wishing that Anathema would show up already so he could take a break, escape the looming headache that throbbed at his temples. Anathema would make her own way to the dormitory soon enough, could usually answer whatever the current riddle was with glib ease, and even in the unlikely event that she got it wrong, it was still early enough that a small trickle of Ravenclaws were still coming back from dinner,  so she’d get in quickly enough either way. But even the thought of another opportunity to gloat about his duelling victory that morning couldn’t quite pull Aziraphale out of his black mood. He didn’t have time to gloat. Didn’t, apparently have time to do anything but study like mad for the next six months. 

Anathema’s arrival was mercifully quick and exactly on time, and she gave Aziraphale a quick, fleeting smile as he gathered up his things and they made their way out of the common room and into Aziraphale’s as-yet deserted dorm. Anathema was quiet on the way up, slightly fidgety, and Aziraphale gave her an odd look. 

“Heavens, Anathema, what’s wrong? You look positively nervous.”

Anathema sighed and let herself flop backwards onto Aziraphale’s bed. She examined her fingernails with a lazy intensity, avoiding eye contact. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I am.”

Aziraphale sat down next to her. 

“But... you’re never nervous. About anything. It’s a little intimidating, honestly.”

Anathema sat up sharply, eyes blazing. 

“That’s the biggest pile of bollocks I’ve ever heard. I’m nervous all the time. About exams, about my stupid family, about what people think. About the fact that I didn’t get the book again this year, and that I’m disappointing Agnes’ ghost, or something.” Anathema took a deep breath, and sighed. “Fuck, Aziraphale, they way you react when people tell you you’re smart, I figured you’d understand, at least. It’s all—smoke and mirrors. I feel like a fraud half the time.” 

Aziraphale pushed himself upright slightly, leaning against Anathema’s shoulder. God, he was always doing things like this, letting his mouth run away with him, saying stupid, thoughtless things, and he scrambled to find the right words, to turn the scared, bitter girl next to him back into his Anathema, fierce and fiery, ready to take on the world. 

“I’m—sorry. I do understand, sort of. That’s kind of how I feel as well, sometimes. Really small and lost and it’s all just kind of too much and too fast. It’s just, I don’t know, you just kind of seemed to have it together all the time. You’re confident. You can talk to people. You’re sort of my role model.”

A pale smile ghosted across Anathema’s face. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

“It’s all right. Makes me feel a bit better, actually, knowing that you worry about stuff too. Does that make me a bad person?”  
Anathema shook her head, a cloud of dark hair covering her face. “Makes you human. Same as me.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, side by side on the bed. 

“Anathema?”

“Mmm?”

“So what are you nervous about tonight? That is, if you don’t mind telling me?”  

Anathema took the ends of her dark hair and started to fiddle with them, making something that might have been a braid and might have been a rather large knot. 

“Er. Well I was nervous because I wanted to tell you something, actually.” 

Aziraphale felt the hot glow of something that was either pride or panic in his stomach. “Oh?” He asked, in what might have been the world’s worst attempt at nonchalance. 

“Yes...well...” Anathema put down her hair and splayed her hands on the soft blue of Aziraphale’s duvet cover. “I’m gay, Aziraphale. A lesbian. I figured it out over the summer, and now— well, you’re the first person I’ve told actually. I hope you feel honoured.” She stare at him expectantly, and Aziraphale sort of stared back stupidly.

“Er. Goodness. I do. Feel honoured, I mean. And that’s— I mean—it’s brilliant, obviously, but I thought— what about you and Newt?”

Anathema blinked. “Newt? Well, what on earth does he have to do with it?”

Aziraphale went slightly red. “Well, I rather thought— that is, I assumed— that the two of you were sort of...”

Anathema let out a world-weary sigh. “We’re just friends, Aziraphale. You can have friendships with people of the opposite gender, you know. I mean, just look at the two of us.”

“I know that,” said Aziraphale defensively. “I just... He definitely— you know— has feelings for you.”

“Well, he’s just going to have to get over himself then,” said Anathema firmly. “Any other questions?”

“Well— it’s just— I mean, how?”

“What do you mean, how?” Anathema said, tone friendly if slightly irritable. “Did I wake up one morning and think, gosh, do you know what, I think I fancy girls, actually, or do you want a proper scientific explanation?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Not in so many words, but— how did you figure it out? Was there—is there—someone?”

Anathema picked up the knotted ends of her hair again, brow furrowed as she searched for the right words. 

“It’s not a thing that’s about anyone else,” she said slowly, “or that’s only about someone else, or that feels temporary. It was just— a slow realisation about me. What I want. What I don’t.” 

Aziraphale could begin to see the traces of the person he stupidly thought of as his Anathema again, centred and passionate and sure, and he smiled a little. 

“What are you smiling at?” she asked, picking at the bedspread. 

Aziraphale went slightly red, flustered. 

“Nothing. You. It’s— wonderful. That you know who you are. Er— that is— I keep saying stupid things tonight—”

Anathema smiled softly. “You say stupid things all the time. It’s why we’re friends.” Her grin turned positively feral. “I need someone to balance out my limitless intelligence.”

“On second thoughts, I think I rather liked insecure, nervous Anathema. Can I have her back now?” 

She gave him a playful shove. “Not a chance.” Anathema paused for a second, suddenly thoughtful. “Have you ever thought about it? Your sexuality, I mean?”

Aziraphale went even redder. It was honestly fairly impressive. 

“Me— I— we have O.W.L.s. I’ll leave the deep introspection until next summer, I think.” This was accurate, to a degree. He was honestly too busy with schoolwork to even contemplate being in a relationship with someone. But at the same time... he envied Anathema and her certainty about her sexuality, the fact that she could label it. He envied straight people, who didn’t seem to have put any thought into the whole thing at all, but just seemed to stroll easily in and out of relationships, as if it was nothing. When Aziraphale thought much about who he found attractive, he tended to feel broken and confused and slightly tired, and so he tended to fill his head up with revision and books and facts instead, and to push the subject firmly away.   
Anathema’s sharp laugh cut through his reverie. “Oh, please. You expect me to believe you won’t already be doing N.E.W.T revision instead next summer?”   
Aziraphale shrugged, happy to accept the change of subject. “Well, I don’t know. I think my parents would quite like me to do some GCSEs at some stage— Muggle O.W.L.s,” he explained quickly, seeing Anathema’s confused face, “they’re still quite keen on me going to university.” 

Anathema blew a cloud of dark hair out of her face. “Gosh. I honestly don’t know where you find the time.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Aziraphale with a sigh. “Neither do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was quite nervous about posting this chapter- it's definitely the most explicitly canon-divergent one so far. But for little 13-year old closeted me... let me have this one. 
> 
> I still definitely want to play around with Newt and Anathema's friendship, I just really don't see them romantically, I'm afraid.
> 
> As always, thanks for sticking with me and please do leave kudos or comments! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild warning: opens with a short discussion of snake dicks. Nothing particularly explicit, just teenage nonsense, but you know. Just in case.

 Crowley positively inhaled what had to be about his fifth cup of coffee of the morning, and tried to ignore the throbbing pain that coursed through the back of his left hand. His second evening with Umbridge had seemed to drag on even longer than his first, although, mercifully, there had been less talking with Umbridge involved. (Well. This had meant more time to be cutting up his hand, so Crowley wasn’t quite sure if _mercy_ was the right word. But anyway.) But Crowley supposed that another advantage of his sunglasses was the fact that they hid the bags under his eyes, and eventually, despite the constant pain slashing hot and bright through his arm, he’d managed to let his mind drift, and had started to plan some more ideas for the Herbology project. Crowley dug through his bag until he could find his already hopelessly-crumpled schedule, and felt a glimmer of excitement: they had Herbology third lesson. He hated to admit it, but Crowley was properly excited for this project, had started to doodle swirly green thorns all over his Muggle Studies homework last night before he’d caught himself. 

 

Crowley poured himself yet another cup of coffee, spooned a positively gratuitous amount of sugar into it and stared up at the others with a chipper smile.

 “All right then, so how much money would you have to be paid to suck You-Know-Who’s dick?”

 This earned him a chorus of disgusted cries, and Newt’s most recent mouthful of pumpkin juice made a dramatic reappearance through his nostrils, splattering a small section of the table cloth in a rather nasty shade of orange. 

 “It’s barely eight in the morning,” said Anathema primly. “Could you possibly not?”

 “D’you it’d be really pale?” Newt asked in a tone of horrified fascination. “Or, cause Potter said he looked sort of snaky, right, do you think he’s got a snake dick?”

 Crowley nodded in mock seriousness. “Wait, do you mean like a snaky dick, or a snake for a dick?”

 “I am trying to eat,” said Anathema, pointing her butter knife vaguely but threateningly in Crowley’s direction. 

 “Do snakes even have—you know,” said Aziraphale, blushing slightly, drawn into the conversation despite himself. “I mean, they must have reproductive organs somewhere, but...”

 “They have two dicks, actually,” said Crowley knowledgeably. “Stored inside the tail most of the time.”

 There was a silence that was equal parts impressed and horrified. 

 “Sorry,” said Newt, breaking the silence, “but _why_  do you know so much about snake dicks?” 

 Crowley shrugged, going slightly red. 

 “I read it somewhere once. It’s the kind of information that sticks with you.” 

 “Yes,” said Anathema, putting down her toast with a slightly green expression on her face. “Thank you ever so much for enlightening us.” 

 Honestly, all four of them seemed slightly relieved when the bell rang and they could go their separate ways. 

 

Crowley had Muggle Studies first thing, and made his way up through the windy, temperamental staircases with a faint smile, avoiding the trick steps with a practiced ease. Muggle Studies got a bad rep as a weak subject, but Muggle culture sang to Crowley. He’d never admit it to anyone, but when Crowley finally graduated Hogwarts, he wasn’t sure if he was just going to leave home— he thought he might leave the Wizarding World entirely. See if he could track down whatever was left of his mother’s family, and then get some GCSEs or A-levels. Get a Discman, or something. Catch up on all the aspects of muggle life he’d missed out on in the last decade or so. Play at being normal. Oh, Crowley liked magic well enough, could be awed by it, even— but it didn’t seem to hold quite the same, well, magic for him that it did for other students. 

Lost in his thoughts, Crowley made his way into the Muggle Studies classroom and gave Professor Burbage a polite smile before sliding into his seat in the back left corner of the classroom and extracting a slightly crumpled essay on the role of technology in the Muggle education system from the debris of his bag. 

Crowley rapped his fingers against the smooth wood of his desk, the coffees (how many had it been in the end? Six?) finally hitting his bloodstream and making him slightly jittery. Go— Someone— had he completely embarrassed himself that morning? His newfound awakeness brought with it an uncomfortable amount of self-awareness. Not in front of Newt, that was certain— they’d both said and done much stupider things in front of each other in the past. And while Anathema had seemed slightly disgusted, she’d been so in an exasperated, slightly joking way, and she wouldn’t hold too much of a grudge, he thought. 

 And Aziraphale? That was slightly harder to figure out. The Ravenclaw seemed to be quite a bit more well-mannered than Crowley, who was well aware of the fact that he swore like a pissy sailor. But he had joined in the conversation. And now probably thought Crowley had a snake fetish or something. Crowley groaned quietly. Fuck, wouldn’t it be just typical if he threw away a budding friendship— not to mention his Herbology O.W.L.— because he hadn’t been able to resist making a bad joke about Voldemort and snake dicks? Crowley hoped desperately that Aziraphale would miraculously have forgotten all about the exchange by lunchtime, but given the other boy’s grades, he somehow doubted it.  

 After Muggle Studies— an interesting discussion on the sustainability of obliviation techniques currently used by the Ministry to uphold the Statue of Secrecy given the scope of modern muggle technology— you could certainly obliviate a witness, but what about the images on a camera? What about the growing phenomenon of the internet?— Crowley bleakly struggled his way through Potions, his Draught of Peace smelling distinctly toxic. Luckily, Snape seemed too distracted by Newt’s potion, which was a distinctly temperamental shade of orange, rather than the expected turquoise, to notice, and Crowley managed to escape the lesson without being started on by Snape, although as he attempted to scoop his potion into a glass vial without breathing or even touching any of it, he doubted he’d be getting too high a grade. Then, finally, it was time for Herbology: he and Newt ambled towards the greenhouses, chatting amicably. 

 “Any idea what plant you’re doing yet?” asked Crowley as they rounded a corner. 

 “I broke three plant pots last lesson, so I doubt I’ll be doing much of anything,” said Newt glumly. 

 “Oh, cheer up, I’m sure you could write the essays,” said Crowley airily, head full of seeds and stems and soil. He needed to feel dirt under his fingernails, needed to create something, needed to feel real. 

 “That’s worse,” said Newt, jogging slightly to keep up with Crowley. “You can see why that’s definitely worse, right? Look, slow down, would you?” Crowley did, fractionally, but only because he could see the greenhouses spilling into view in the distance. 

 “Sorry. I’m just— I dunno. ‘S just my favourite lesson, that’s all.”

 Newt nodded sagely. “Ah. Right. I also love being surrounded by killer plants, doing things where all my magic is functionally useless.”

 “ _You’re_ functionally useless, Newt...” Still bickering, the two of them walked into the warm air of the greenhouse, Crowley’s glasses fogging up ever so slightly. The warmth was almost uncomfortable, and Crowley absent-mindedly started to roll up his sleeves, before he remembered the red marks on the back of his arm with a spike of horror, the marks that were already sort of starting to look like words. Crowley shuddered, quickly pulled down his sleeves, and walked over to Aziraphale, plastering a smile onto his face as he went. “Hi! I’m excited to get started, I really hope we can get planting today...” Crowley ran a hand through his mess of dark hair, suddenly nervous. “And, er, sorry if I offended you this morning or anything. I say a lot of stupid things sometimes.”

 Aziraphale thought back to his conversation with Anathema the previous night and smiled back. “Oh, gosh, so do I, don’t worry about it. And, er this morning’s conversation was certainly very...interesting,” he added diplomatically. Crowley grinned back sheepishly, and pulled out a battered leather notebook from his bag. 

 “So I was thinking, right, we should get the Tentacula planted as soon as possible, because it’ll take a few days to even put down its roots, and then we can sort of split the project into three parts: the initial growth process,  tending to the adult Tentacula, and then, towards the end of the project, harvesting some product from the plant.”

 “Goodness, you’ve actually put a lot of thought into this,” said Aziraphale, feeling slightly touched. It was nice to know that Crowley cared about this as much as he did. “And we can do essays for each stage— and diagrams of the seeds, and the plant throughout different stages, and things...”

 “Right,” agreed Crowley enthusiastically. 

 They collected their seeds from Professor Sprout— four of them, shrivelled up-looking black things that emitted a distinctly worrying rattling noise that made Aziraphale think they should have chosen a mildly less dangerous plant instead— and made their way back over to their benches, ready to get to work. 

 “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you,” Professor Sprout had said, voice even but firm, “but Venomous Tentacula seeds are, of course, a grade C non-tradable substance. So I do expect to see four beautiful seedlings soon, is that clear?”

 “What was that all about?” Aziraphale asked, a tad affronted. As if he would ever steal anything!

 “‘S those sixth year Gryffindors, Fred and George,” said Crowley absently, pulling out a small, slightly rusty trowel. “Apparently they’re using them to make these sweets that cause you to like, be sick all over the place, so you can get out of lessons.”

 “Why on earth would anyone want to do that?” said Aziraphale, baffled. “In our year especially. We’ve got O.W.L.s, we can’t be skiving!” 

 “O.W.L.s would be exactly why I’d skive,” said Crowley, as the pair of them began digging through the earth, turning up the new soil. “I mean— why would you sit through History of Magic when you could be actually revising something? And besides,” he added, “any excuse to get out of Umbridge’s lessons...”

 This was more familiar ground, and Aziraphale nodded intently. 

 “I mean, does she even realise we have a practical element to this exam? We can’t just do textbook work all year, what about the wandwork! And I’ve been flicking through the textbook— only a little,” Aziraphale amended, not wanting to sound as though he read textbooks for fun, “but Slinkhard doesn’t sound as though he approves of the use of defensive spells at all. Under any circumstances.”

 Crowley stopped his digging to give Aziraphale an incredulous look. 

 “The subject’s only called bloody Defence Against the Dark Arts, what’s he expect us to do, just sit and take it? Well, if we all fail, that’ll stick it to Umbridge, I suppose...”

 Aziraphale went pale. “They can’t do that, surely? They’d have to lower the grade boundaries, or something.”

 Crowley shrugged. “We can but hope. Anyway, this looks pretty tilled, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale nodded, and they pulled on their dragonskin gloves, and got to work applying pellets made of what certainly smelled like dragon dung, which were supposed to act as a combination fertiliser and pesticide. This was slighlty more complicated than it seemed, as each pellet had to be pushed precisely one inch into the earth in order to work properly, and so Aziraphale and Crowley, once they’d finished the initial process of scattering the pellets about, had to pull out little wooden rulers and get to it, trying not to breathe in too much through their noses as they did so. 

 “Aziraphale,” said Crowley after a little while, breaking the silence, stretching the name out into its four syllables. 

 “Hmm?” said Aziraphale, who was trying to figure out where, exactly, he was supposed to be measuring this inch from— top, middle or bottom of the pellet?

 “Well, it’s not exactly the most usual name, is it?” said Crowley, yanking his ruler out and shaking a thin stream of dirt off it. “What’s it mean?”

 “It’s biblical,” said Aziraphale, going slightly pink. “Derived from Raphael, I think. He was supposed to be the angel who guarded the gates of Eden, or something. It’s fairly obscure.” 

 “An angel. Suits you.” Aziraphale blushed redder—so, to his credit, did Crowley, but the Ravenclaw was too busy with his own embarrassment, not to mention the pellets, to notice this much. 

 “D’you really think so? I just think it’s quite long, and awkward, and there’s always this really long pause during the register as they try and figure out how it’s pronounced.”

 Crowley grinned and stabbed his ruler back down into the earth, wiggling it a little bit and then wincing as he dislodged his pellet slightly. “Look, have you ever been in detention?”

 Aziraphale thought that if someone tried to give him detention, he might actually die. 

 “Well, no. But I’m reasonably sure there are other criteria...” 

 “Have you ever even lost a single point from Ravenclaw?”

 Aziraphale went, somehow, even redder. 

 “I—that is—I don’t think—”

 Crowley grinned brightly. “There you go, then. Angelic as can be.”

 Aziraphale shook his head wearily as he bent over to examine another pellet. “If I were a good, holy human, that would make me a saint, not an angel.”

 Crowley clutched his ruler to his chest dramatically, getting dirt on his robes. He didn’t seem to mind. “You even know religious things! You truly are an angel!”

 Aziraphale sighed, and narrowly resisted the urge to whack Crowley with his own ruler. That would show him exactly how angelic the Ravenclaw was. But the pungent smell of the dragon dung made Aziraphale reconsider, and instead he focused on burying another pellet and merely said:

 “Well, what about your name, then?”

 “Crowley? I mean, it was my mum’s last name, obviously. I don’t really know what it means, but it’s a dammed sight better than Jaeger.” Crowley jabbed another pellet into the earth with a force that sent a wave of pain shooting through the back of his left hand, and he winced slightly.  

 “Well, I rather agree, of course,” said Aziraphale, “but I mean, what about your first name? Anthony, isn’t it? It was quite strange seeing it written on the project letter, I’d sort of forgotten you had one...”

 Crowley gave a strange sort of half-smile. _Anthony_  had been a grubby little boy who’d loved his mother. _Anthony_ was what his uncle called him, always in that same cool, disappointed voice.  

 “Well. ‘S a bit like muggle studies, I suppose. Don’t want to forget things. Don’t want other people to forget certain things about me.” 

 Aziraphale seemed happy enough to accept this answer, and when it was finally time to pack up, they left the lesson with hands sore and smudged with dirt and four pristine Venomous Tentacula seeds snugly in the earth, Crowley feeling lighter than he had all day. If only his bloody hand would stop hurting. He could feel it constantly, a dull ache through his skin, but worse than that was the urgency that seemed to course through him with it. _Someone will see, someone will see, someone will see._ He pushed the thought away, and turned away to Aziraphale. “So. Angel. Watering schedules.”

 Aziraphale sighed. Was he expected to come up with a nickname for Crowley or something now? But on the subject of watering schedules...

 “Ah. Yes. They’d have to be watered, what, three times a day, initially?” 

 Crowley nodded. “And we’ll need to start adding ground up Chizpurfels soon, we don’t want them to have any nitrate deficiencies...”

 Aziraphale looked sceptically at his timetable. “Well, we can come down at lunch, obviously, or during frees, and when we actually have Herbology, the third time’s easy enough.”

 Crowley nodded. “I can probably stop by after detention, if you like. That’d be quite nice, actually.” 

 Aziraphale gave him a grateful smile. “If you wouldn’t mind, that’d be excellent. That is, if it’s not too late for you...”

 Crowley waved a hand, saw his sleeve shift slightly, and instantly dropped it, swearing internally. “Nah, it’s no problem. I’ll stop by tonight then, yeah?”

 Aziraphale nodded, and looked worriedly at the clock. “I have to go—Arithmancy. But I’ll see you at lunch, all right?”

 Crowley grinned. “Yeah, see you— _angel_.”

 This time Aziraphale didn’t hold back and whacked him with his rather weighty Arithmancy textbook. 

 But Crowley’s hand kept throbbing all through Charms, and he was terrified that someone would see— all they’d need was a glimpse. So before lunch, he made some vague excuse about needing to go to the toilet, found the nearest quiet-looking corner, and pulled out his wand, the soft feel of the dark wood against his hand already calming him somewhat, the feeling of control. This was, depressingly, the one area of magic, other than maybe Herbology, where he was definitely more competent than his peers, maybe even more so than Aziraphale. But he had plenty of experience—staring up at the cool disappointment on his uncle’s face as he patched him up, and then later, in first year especially, whenever Hastur and Ligur had gotten bored, and he had to find a way to get himself looking relatively normal again, before anyone saw or started to ask questions. The last thing he’d needed back then was to get in trouble for fighting. 

Crowley had to hold his wand in his right hand to do the spell, which felt odd, slightly disjointed, but the wand movement was simple enough that he figured he could hopefully manage, even with his weaker hand. 

 “ _Episkey_ ,” he said, as loudly as he dared, and let out a long, whistling breath as his arm went cold, then hot, and then as the throbbing eased and the redness faded.  He examined the back of his hand critically, trying to judge if you could still see anything, but although his skin still looked vaguely irritated, the outlines of letters were gone, and he figured he’d be ok now. Crowley got up, shoved his wand into his pocket with a sigh, and went back over to join the others for lunch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! We're over 20K words deep into this thing now, and thanks so much for sticking with me so far!!
> 
> Please do leave kudos or comments, they're all so lovely and always make my day :)


	12. Chapter 12

 

The coffees started to wear off at about three, and Crowley spent the rest of the day in a tired haze, only vaguely aware of what was going on around him— an attitude that McGonnagall, for one, did not seem to find particularly endearing. He slept solidly through History of Magic, and would have slept through Astronomy, too, only Newt hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was doing, and kept waking Crowley up to ask him for help. The only problem with this was that as Crowley had been half-asleep, he didn’t have the foggiest clue of what was going on either, and furthermore, Newt seemed to have damaged some fundamental part of his telescope, so Crowley doubted he could have been of much help anyway. 

After wolfing down a scaldingly hot dinner of fish pie, Crowley headed off to his third detention with Umbridge. How many was it going to be? She couldn’t keep this up forever—could she? Not once his O.W.L.s kicked in, certainly. And she’d have to get bored of watching him cut up his arm at some stage, wouldn’t she? He couldn’t see detention lasting for much more than two weeks. Well. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t, anyway. 

He had to wait ages before Potter came out, looking as fed up as Crowley felt, and clutching his right arm. Crowley shot the Gryffindor a sympathetic glance, and then, somehow, his feet were dragging him over the threshold into Umbridge’s office, the nauseating pink of office hurting more than his hand ever would. Crowley greeted Umbridge sullenly, and moved to take his seat, ready for another endless evening of monotonous pain. But to his surprise, Umbridge curved a stubby finger towards him. 

“Not just yet, Mr Jaeger,” she sing-songed, with that terrible emphasis on the ill-fitting last name. Crowley tried to fight down a scowl. This whole thing was already humiliating enough, why did the old bag insist on talking to him? Crowley knew he had to, had to behave perfectly, or else. But there was just something about the way that Umbridge talked down to Crowley that made him feel so small and stupid and embarrassed, and he hated it, hated how powerless it made him feel. But Crowley just took a deep breath in, curled his hands into miniature fists, the bright spots of pain on his palms anchors, and stood there, ready to take whatever was coming. 

An ugly smile twisted across Umbridge’s face. “My, my, Mr Jaeger. What is this now, night three?”

Crowley nodded tightly, and Umbridge’s smile widened, became almost hungry. “Well, then. Shall we see if the message is sinking in yet, hmm?” She extended her small, pudgy hand expectantly, bulging veins straining to keep distended flesh in place. Crowley felt a deep, eerie sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and placed his recently-healed arm into Umbridge’s vice-like grip, unsure if he was ever going to get it back. Umbridge stared at the smooth expanse of his arm with unabashed savage glee, and behind his sunglasses, Crowley let his eyes slip closed, just for a second. “Oh dear, Mr Jaeger. It appears my message hasn’t even made a dent yet. It seems we’ll be...enjoying each other’s company for a while longer, hmm?” Umbridge releases her grip on Crowley’s wrist, grabbing her offensively pink quill and something that certainly looked like marking, although given that every single person Crowley had spoken to had spent Umbridge’s lesson reading silently from Slinkhard and his bloody Defensive Magical Theory, he wasn’t entirely sure how this could be the case. 

“You know what to do, I’m sure, Mr Jaeger,” Umbridge trilled, and Crowley practically let himself fall into his usual seat as he picked up the black quill, eyeing it with distaste. 

“Oh, and Mr Jaeger,” Umbridge added, and Crowley would rather have stabbed himself in the chest with the sodding quill than listen to one more high-pitched, faux-girlish word out of that toad-like mouth, “I think it would be best if you removed your sunglasses during these sessions, hmm? That way I can be sure you’re...properly applying yourself.”

Crowley figured Umbridge could probably tell how exactly how hard he was applying himself by looking at the state of his left hand, but he didn’t dare say anything, just mutely, slowly removed his glasses, folded them carefully, and placed them gently in the top right corner of the desk. Umbridge’s door was closed, he knew, so there was no chance of any passer-by seeing, but even so...his eyes felt strange, sensitive, in the harsh, unfiltered light. All the pink seemed even more garish, seemed to push against his skull, scorch his retinas. He felt suddenly, terribly exposed. Crowley gritted his teeth. The faster he got this done, the faster he could put his sunglasses back on, the faster he could get to bed. Crowley put the quill to paper, took one last, deep breath, and began. 

 

Umbridge had kept him later than ever that evening, until a few thin droplets of blood had stained his wrist even after the letters had slowly, painfully closed up, and as Crowley made his way down to the greenhouses— the tentaculas needed watering, after all— it was already properly dark outside, and Crowley shivered in the sudden autumn chill. It was really very late, and Crowley had to be fast, or he’d be in trouble for being out of bed after hours. 

His skin was as red and painful as it had been that morning, but Crowley didn’t dare heal his arm again, much as he desperately wanted to. Umbridge had made it quite clear that he’d be returning to detention each night until her message had adequately sunk in— i.e, until he’d sufficiently fucked up the back of his left arm. 

  _I must respect my elders_. Unbelievable. 

 He could always heal his wrist up after the fact, Crowley supposed, but how was he meant to keep anyone from seeing the (quite literally) bloody thing for the next few days? A camouflaging spell, or something? Makeup? He didn’t own any makeup, so that was stupid. A long-sleeved jumper under his robes and sheer luck? He could figure something out in the morning, he supposed. 

 Crowley grabbed a plant mister and a sack of Chizpurfle Powder, and got to work, watering the area around his four precious seeds before gently sprinkling on the powder. He’d enjoy this phase while it lasted, because he’d have to switch to whole, preferably live Chizpurfles fairly soon— grey-bluish little crablike things, magical parasites that tended to destroy muggle electrical appliances. Crowley wondered vaguely if someone in Newt’s family had had a Chizpurfle-related accident at some stage. 

 “Now,” Crowley told his seeds firmly, “you all have to grow really well, d’you hear me? Because I’ve just had an absolute shite evening, and this class is sort of all that’s holding me together at the moment. And if you let me down...” Crowley leant in close, held his plant mister like a gun. “Well, look. I’d probably fail my Herbology O.W.L, for one. Which is less than ideal. Plus Aziraphale would hate me forever, which...” Crowley blinked. Why was that such a pressing concern all of a sudden? “Well. Anyway. I will be extremely disappointed. And there will be...” he paused dramatically, put on his best bond-villain voice, “...consequences. Is that understood?” His evening quota of threatening done, Crowley stood up, and saw with a wince that the cuts on the back of his hand had reopened at some stage, as a thin trickle of blood rolled lazily off his wrist, and disappeared into the dark of the soil, almost as though it had been sucked in. Crowley shook his head as though to clear it, put away the mister and the sack, and headed off to bed. He needed the grey oblivion that would come with sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!! sorry for the slight delay, I'm trying to work on the basis that I can only publish a chapter once I've finished another one.
> 
> As always, please do leave kudos or comments and thanks so much for sticking with me!


	13. Chapter 13

 The next day dawned with a dull haze of exhaustion and the sudden, desperate realisation that Crowley did, in fact, have quite a bit of homework to be getting on with. After shoving on his sunglasses, Crowley stared skeptically at the back of his hand, the swollen red cuts that were really starting to look quite a bit like words. To no-one’s surprise, he hadn’t come up with a miracle solution to hiding the cuts overnight, and Crowley swallowed thickly as he pulled the sleeve of his robe as far as it would go, up and over his knuckles. Crowley fished through the utter war zone of his bag, trying to find his wand, and resisting the stupid urge to just say _accio_  very loudly and see if anything happened— there were other people in his dorm, after all, even if Newt, for one, was still asleep, and drooling profusely over his pillow. Crowley found his wand, eventually, but not before he’d also found the blank parchment where he was supposed to write his Potions essay on moonstone that was due— Crowley silently  _accio_ ’d his schedule with some relief— third lesson. Fuck. He debated skipping breakfast and staying in the Hufflepuff dorm to do the homework instead, but decided against it— he was hungry, in desperate need of some coffee, and besides, Aziraphale and Anathema could probably help him with the essay, anyway. Crowley fished a crumpled Muggle Studies essay out of his bag that had to be from what, third year—he really had to clean out his bag—balled it up, and chucked it at Newt, waking him up. The other Hufflepuff sat up, eyes slightly bleary but otherwise looking much more awake than Crowley felt, and looked sympathetic when Crowley told him about his essay situation. 

 “Oh. Yeah. Did that last night, I think,” said Newt, as he struggled into his robes. “I’d let you copy, only it’s so terrible that you’d probably get a higher grade for not turning anything in at all.” 

 Crowley shook his head as he fumbled to get his tie on properly while keeping his arm adequately covered. 

 “Yeah, and an earful from Snape, which Merlin fucking knows I really don’t need right now— ‘S fine, I’ll just do it really badly at breakfast.”

 “Be careful not to spill pumpkin juice on it,” said Newt, recalling an instance from last year where he’d been in a similar situation with a transfiguration worksheet. “Couldn’t even _reparo_ the stuff off, it was terrible.” 

 Crowley grimaced. 

 “I’ll just make sure to stay far away from you then, and I should be fine— I swear, there must be magic involved somewhere, no normal person is that good at breaking things.”

 “Don’t I know it,” said Newt gloomily, holding up his wand, which was a miserable thing mainly held together by plasters, sellotape, and pure, desperate hope. “I’m cursed or something, I swear...”

 They made their way down to the Great Hall as quickly as they could, Crowley keen to get his bloody essay done as quickly as humanly possible. It was a relief to already see Anathema and Aziraphale sat at the end of the Hufflepuff table, and the two boys quickly joined them, Crowley pulling out his essay as he sat down. 

 “What’s the homework on?” asked Aziraphale, who was halfway through applying a liberal serving of marmalade to his piece of toast. 

 “Potions, on moonstone and its uses, due period three,” said Crowley gloomily. “What with detention and everything last night, it completely slipped my mind. Don’t suppose either of you have done it?” 

 Aziraphale shook his head apologetically. “I haven’t had Potions yet, sorry...” Although Aziraphale usually held copying in a fairly similar regard to first degree murder, he did honestly feel rather sorry for the Hufflepuff— despite the sunglasses, Aziraphale could see that Crowley was clearly exhausted. 

 “I have,” said Anathema suddenly. “Er... so they’re used in a lot of love potions, as well as the draught of peace, and...oh, it’s too loud in here, I can’t think. Look, do you want to find somewhere quieter? I have something to ask you, anyway.” 

 “Yeah, all right,” said Crowley, picking up his as-yet blank essay in one hand, and several pieces of toast in the other. He gave Newt and Aziraphale an awkward, toast-filled wave, and then followed Anathema, who was already striding briskly out of the great hall. 

 Hogwarts was such a twisty castle, filled with dark hallways and windy corridors that Crowley could swear moved, that it took next to no time for the two of them to find a nice quiet alcove. Crowley pulled out his parchment and sat cross-legged on the cool stone floor, sunglasses on snugly and sleeve still pulled down firmly over his left hand, while Anathema paced round, listing things off her fingers as she did so. 

 “Right, how long does this have to be again? Twelve inches? I’d use big handwriting if I were you, there really isn’t all that much to say, I honestly think Snape’s just looking for an excuse to be pissy with us at this stage...” still, Crowley got a semi-coherent essay done relatively quickly, albeit in gratuitously large, sprawling handwriting, and given that Crowley’s handwriting was a smudgy, spidery mess at the best of times (one of the myriad benefits of being left-handed, along with being constitutionally incapable of using scissors properly), he wished Snape the best of luck in reading it. Crowley stabbed down his quill for the final full stop with a flourish, and then grinned up at Anathema as he awkwardly stood up, shoving parchment, quill and ink into  his bag as he did so. 

 “Thanks a ton for this, I’m in deep enough shit with Umbridge at the moment, I really don’t need Snape on my case as well...”

 Anathema looked up at Crowley, suddenly serious. 

 “Yes. About that, Crowley... what did you say she was making you do in detention again?”

 “Lines,” said Crowley, in what he sincerely hoped was a very laid-back voice. “Why?”

 Anathema fiddled with the ends of her dark hair. “Well, it’s only... I was talking to Padma last night, and obviously her twin’s in Gryffindor, and she sort of knows Potter— went with him to the Yule ball last year, remember?— and she said that...” Anathema looked slightly sick, and Crowley himself felt slightly wobbly. Did she know? How could she know? Oh, fucking Potter...

 “What did she say?” said Crowley conversationally, even if his voice shook ever-so-slightly at the end. 

 “She said— oh look, she said that Umbridge was making Potter slice up his hand,” said Anathema, voice laced with horror. “She’s— she’s not doing that to you, is she, Crowley?”

 Crowley wanted to answer, but his head was full of a resounding chorus of _shitshitshitshitSHIT_ , and he just sort of stared blankly, hand drifting unconsciously towards his left sleeve. 

 “Of course not. That’s— that’s terrible,” he finally managed, a beat too late. Anathema arched a dark eyebrow, flicked her wand, and Crowley’s sleeve flew upwards, exposing the red skin, the cuts that spidered across the back of his hand and onto his arm, unmistakably words. Anathema definitely looked sick now, face pale and taunt. 

 “Jesus, Crowley! You have to report her! This is— you can see that this isn’t okay, surely?” 

 Crowley yanked his sleeve back down furiously. 

 “This is— look, just leave it, all right? She works for the ministry, reporting her won’t do anything, you know that. It’ll only make things worse.” He felt angry, not at Anathema specifically, just at the whole bloody world, at Umbridge for placing him in this situation, and defensive, and horribly humiliated. 

 “I most certainly do not know that,” said Anathema, voice rising. “Do you really think Dumbledore would let Umbridge stay at the school if he knew she was hurting students?”

 Crowley shrugged angrily. “I dunno, he’s never seemed too concerned about our safety, has he? Remember the Chamber of Secrets? Or Cedric fucking Diggory?” And besides—” Crowley didn’t even have a good reason for why he didn’t want anyone to know. He just— that would make it more real, more serious, make him feel smaller, weaker. And oh, Merlin’s _tits_ , what if Hastur and Ligur found out? It didn’t bear thinking about. “Look— I appreciate it and all, but can you just mind your fucking business? I can handle this just fine.”

 “The back of your hand says otherwise,” snapped Anathema, equally unwilling to back down, arms folded defensively over her chest.  “Fuck, Crowley, what if it scars?”

 “I can always heal it after she’s done with me, all right?”

 Anathema threw her hands up, exasperated. “No, it’s not all right! After she’s done with you— can’t you hear how messed up that sounds?” Anathema sighed, took a deep breath. “I don’t know why I’m getting so angry. I’m sorry. It’s just...”

 Crowley sighed as well, and sat back down against the cool stone of the wall. Anathema joined him. 

 “Yeah, neither do I, really. But— can you just leave it? Please?”

 Anathema ran her finger slowly down the smooth expanse of the wall behind her. 

 “I won’t tell any teachers,” she said at last, slowly, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. 

 “But,” she said sharply, and Crowley wondered if he’d relaxed too soon as she fixed him with a fiery gaze, “I am going to tell Aziraphale. And Newt. See if they can talk some sense into you.”

 Crowley started to protest,  but Anathema picked up her things and stalked off, leaving Crowley behind, slumped against the wall. The bell rang, and Crowley swore and headed off to History of Magic, unable to quite process what had just happened. 

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone have any advice on a-level choices because all i have so far is not fucking french and i'm Stressing
> 
> As ever, thanks so much for reading!! There was a beaut moment on Saturday night when we reached exactly 666 hits so thanks so much, Crowley would approve :)


	14. Chapter 14

 

Aziraphale stared across at Newt, who was shoving toast into his mouth with wild abandon. He and Anathema could chat for hours, and against all the odds,  he’d been able to hold fairly decent conversations with Crowley, but he didn’t think that he and Newt had ever spoken more than about three words to each other. Aziraphale finished off his own slice of toast, and then stared hopefully at Newt, picking at the tablecloth as he did so. When the other boy showed no particular sign of wanting to start a conversation, Aziraphale sighed deeply and tried to muster up some enthusiasm. 

“What O.W.L.s options do you do?” asked Aziraphale, which he was relatively sure was the actual most boring question on earth, but it was as good a place as any to start. 

“Care of Magical Creatures and Divination,” Newt replied through a mouthful of toast. “CMC’s all right, but Divination’s a bit of a joke, I almost picked Muggle Studies instead, you know— can you believe I used to want to be a computer engineer? Terrible idea, really, I break any piece of tech I come within a hundred-mile radius of. Maybe Crowley’s right, and I did swallow a chizpurfle as a child or something.”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what the last bit meant, but he perked up anyway, glad to find a subject he could actually talk about. 

“Well, it’s better than the usual auror nonsense phase most wizarding children seem to go through, I suppose. Are you from a muggle family, then?”

Newt shrugged and grabbed yet another piece of toast. 

“Bit all over the place, really. My dad went to Hogwarts and then so did my aunt on my mum’s side, but my mum isn’t a witch,  and my grandparents on that side aren’t either— so I kind of got a weird mix of both growing up.”

“Gosh,” said Aziraphale, genuinely interested now. “That’s fascinating. If you’re worried about divination, though— Anathema could probably help you, she’s quite good at it— runs in the family and all.”

Newt nodded wisely, the effect of which was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was still chewing down a mouthful of toast. 

“That’s why you were fighting over that Agnes Nitt book yesterday, right?”

“Agnes _Nutter_ ,” Aziraphale corrected. “But yes, essentially. 

They lapsed back into awkward silence for a little while, Newt shoving yet more toast into his mouth. 

“You’re from a mostly muggle family, aren’t you?” asked Newt, mouth miraculously already toast-free. 

Aziraphale nodded. “My grandmother was a squib. It’s quite good, in that my parents get me to do some Latin and Greek and stuff, which is great for remembering what spells do, but the problem is they also want me to do some muggle exams and things.”

Newt rolled his eyes sympathetically. 

“The eternal GCSEs discussion, I know. I keep telling my mum that if I’ll barely scrape through my O.W.Ls, which are the things I’ve spent  the last 5 school years prepping for, there’s really no hope of me passing any GCSEs.”

Aziraphale laughed.  

“I honesty think that must be the one real perk of coming from an all-Wizarding family— they’d accept O.W.L.s as enough, you know?” 

Newt nodded, but before he had a chance to reply, Anathema burst back into the great hall, cheeks slightly flushed and eyes blazing. There was no sign of Crowley, but Anathema flung herself into her seat furiously, glaring at both of them. 

“Your papers have arrived,” Newt ventured brightly, which was either very brave or remarkably unobservant of him, thought Aziraphale. Anathema was a religious reader of both the Daily Prophet, nowadays mostly to mutter darkly about how terribly biased it was, and a smaller monthly magazine called the Quibbler, which seemed as far as Aziraphale was concerned to publish mainly crackpot conspiracy theories, but which Anathema swore by, saying that it was the only paper brave enough to publish the truth about all the goings-on in the wizarding world. Aziraphale had read some of its articles on Fudge’s alleged goblin money-laundering scheme, and had his private doubts on the matter. 

Anathema shoved her papers into her bag without looking at them, and then shook her hair back over her shoulders, like she was squaring up for a fight. 

“Do you know,” she said, ignoring Newt, each word drawn out into a tight ball of rage, “what that beastly Umbridge woman is doing to Crowley?” 

“Lines, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale ventured, although judging by Anathema’s face, this answer was slightly off. 

“She’s only making him slice up his bloody hand! And the idiot won’t report her, or anything!”

Aziraphale blinked, not quite comprehending. 

“She’s what? But surely— there’s laws against that sort of thing, aren’t there?” There most definitely were in the muggle world, Aziraphale thought grimly. In a muggle school, Umbridge would be fired for pulling something like this— that was if she’d even managed to get hired in the first place. But once again, the wizarding world seemed so convinced of its superiority that it was almost Edwardian sometimes. Anathema shrugged angrily. 

“There probably are, if only he’d tell someone!” 

Aziraphale still didn’t quite comprehend the situation. 

“But what— so how did you find out about this?” A very tiny voice in his head was a tad upset that Crowley hadn’t told him. Which was ridiculous, because he’d barely known Crowley for a week, but then the same held true for Anathema, after all. Aziraphale pushed his stupid, selfish thoughts away, tried to focus on the important aspects. “And what do you mean, she’s making himself slice up his hand?”

Anathema shook her head as though to clear it. 

“Oh, long story— I heard it off Padma who hear it off Parvati who indirectly heard it off Potter— because obviously he’s in the same situation... but all that doesn’t really matter. She’s— oh, I don’t know exactly how it works, but he had these words carved into the back of his hand. It was—” she broke off, stared pleadingly at Aziraphale and Newt. “I handled it all wrong, I know. Could you— would you mind trying to talk some sense into him? Get him to talk to a teacher or something? Or— just make sure he’s all right, would you?”

Newt nodded, looking slighlty dazed. Aziraphale slowly followed suit, unsure of how he would go about such a thing, exactly, and still feeling slighlty shell-shocked by the whole situation, and yet also secretly, smugly pleased that Crowley hadn’t confided in Anathema rather than him.

Still— although he’d instinctively mistrusted Umbridge from the start, someone so obviously affiliated with the ministry having no place in a school— this was a hitherto unknown level of sheer wrongness. There was a name for this sort of thing, thought Aziraphale grimly, and he was relatively sure it was child abuse. And the idea that Crowley hadn’t dared to tell anyone... Aziraphale shuddered, and was pleased when the bell rang, and he could head off to class and fill his mind with schoolwork. 

 

But the image stuck with him, his brain supplying an endless torrent of miserable mental images that seemed to haunt him all day, no matter how feverently he tried to push them back. Even chanting Latin conjugations over and over in his head couldn’t occupy his thoughts, and the vague details he’d gotten off Anathema only made it worse, got him to think of his own nightmare scenarios. It... didn’t seem to fit, something like this. Hogwarts was supposed to be safe, magical, a place to learn. And Crowley seemed so relaxed, calm and confident and supremely laid-back— to have that image ripped away, after just a few days—it was jarring. And how on Earth did Anathema expect him to deal with any of this? Aziraphale felt small and stupid and slightly sick. He was— he had mental breakdowns twice weekly over exams, for Merlin’s sake. He really didn’t— it wasn’t, Aziraphale thought grimly, a very nice experience to realise that other people’s problems were far worse than yours, and that you had absolutely no idea how to solve either set. Aziraphale caught sight of Anathema’s dark hair on the far side of the corridor, and barged past some terrified-looking first years to get to her. 

“Anathema— look— I mean— this is terrible. Obviously. Umbridge is terrible. But what am I supposed to do about it?” He gave Anathema a pleading look, tried to get her to understand. Anathema tucked her hair behind her ears, and sighed. 

“Honestly, Aziraphale? I haven’t the foggiest.” She sighed, frustrated. “You didn’t see me, I completely ballsed it up. And it’s not fair for me to then shove this on you, and I’m sorry. But— I don’t know. I don’t think this is a situation that we can magically fix, by saying the right words. I think... it’s just— Crowley just needs to know, all right? That he has people here who care about him. And... I think that’s better coming from you than from me.” 

Aziraphale stared back at her. “But— we’ve both barely known Crowley for about a week.”

Anathema shrugged, pushed her hair back over her shoulders. 

“I know. But somehow... I’m an acquaintance. You’re his friend.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I mean— I’m flattered you think so— but— what about Newt? He’s known for Crowley years longer than I have. Shouldn’t he be the one to— I don’t know— handle this?” This was unfair as well, Aziraphale knew full well. Reducing Crowley to this— problem. But he knew— he knew, with a deep and furious certainty, that if he went to to talk to Crowley about this, he’d do it wrong, say something stupid. And then he’d completely ruin things with Crowley, a boy that, contrary to all expectations, Aziraphale actually liked, and by extension, probably his Herbology project. And God, why was he thinking about that? Why was he so determined to make everything about himself? Anathema just shook her head. 

“Look. Newt’s a good laugh, all right? But we both know he’s a bit of an idiot. And I’m going to be late to bloody Transfiguration.”

And she stalked off, leaving a very confused Aziraphale behind. He was— he got decent grades. That didn’t make him a psychologist, for Heaven’s sake. Newt, he thought miserably, was probably far better at this sort of thing than he was. Aziraphale glumly made his way to Ancient Runes, trying to think of what on Earth he was going to say to Crowley. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a wonderful time of year to be listening to merry christmas maggie thatcher on a loop
> 
> also my french speaking mock was mainly ok, photo card was way too short and i forgot to narrate things, but other than that all good, spanish speaking on monday!
> 
> As ever, thanks so much for reading, and all your wonderful comments and kudos!! (we're on more than 100 now, which is absolutely mad! thanks so much!!)


	15. Chapter 15

 

Crowley sat in his usual seat at the back of the History of Magic classroom, unable to do his usual routine of simply passing out, waiting for Newt to arrive with a slick sort of dread. He fussed with a ballpoint he’d gotten off Anathema the other day, needing to do something with his hands, unscrewing it and taking all the components apart, fiddling about with the dainty silver spring. 

When Newt finally showed up, a hair’s breadth away from being late, Crowley looked down at the wreckage of the pen on his desk, indefinitely glad for the double protection his sunglasses offered in terms of avoiding eye contact.  

“Anathema told me. About the whole Umbridge thing,” said Newt, as loudly as he could without anyone else in the class overhearing. Binns wouldn’t notice, but unfortunately, not all the Hufflepuffs shared his droning obliviousness. 

_Didn’t waste any time, did she_ , thought Crowley miserably, already dreading the inevitable awkwardness of lunch. What came out of his mouth was a sulky, noncommittal “mmmph,” noise. 

“‘It’s pretty fucked up,” said Newt, voice airy and conversational. Crowley blinked. He was in unchartered territory— he and Newt were genuinely good friends, but they were friends in an easy-going, jokey sort of way. They didn’t talk about things like  _this_. 

“Yeah, probably,” he replied, well aware that he was acting like a sulky teenager, and utterly unwilling to do anything about it. He was a sulky teenager. 

“Can I see?” asked Newt, and Crowley sighed, rolled his eyes, and then, under the cover of their desks, pushed back his sleeve swiftly to give Newt a brief glimpse of the angry red letters that marred the back of his hand. Newt let out a low whistle. 

“‘It’s  _very_ fucked up,” said Newt, almost reverently. Crowley gave him an odd look. 

“Yeah,” he said, finally, not sure what other answer to give. 

“But you don’t want to tell anyone?” said Newt, not sounding particularly judgemental, just mildly interested. It was a question that merited more than a grunt or one-word answer, and Crowley knew it. He sighed and shrugged. 

“She works for the ministry. ‘S not going to do jack shit. It’d just make things worse, probably. And— I’ll just heal it up after all the detentions are over. She won’t keep me forever.”

Newt shrugged, seemed to accept this. 

“She’s a right cow. Sorry, mate.”

Crowley gave a humourless smile. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

There was a moment of silence, punctuated by Binns’ heavy drone about goblins, or whatever. 

“I asked Anathema out last night, after you went off to detention, you know,” Newt ventured without any real enthusiasm. 

Crowley winced, already relatively sure of what her response would have been, but more than happy to accept the change in subject, even if he reckoned the second-hand embarrassment might actually kill him. 

“And what did she say?” he said, aiming for a blithe, chipper tone, and missing by a few miles. 

Newt sighed. 

“No, obviously. And she told me—well, she’s—she’s a lesbian. So...well. So you’d think that would stop me from overanalysing everything I’ve ever done in front of her to try and see where, exactly I went wrong, but...” Newt sighed and looked up at Crowley, suddenly serious. “Look— D’you think I might have stood a chance— you know, if she wasn’t gay?”

Crowley hesitated, busied himself with putting his pen back together, twisting the spring back into shape. 

“Probably not, mate.” he said at last, and gave Newt a sympathetic pat on the back. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your head seems to be chronically stuck up you arse.” It felt so good, saying mindless, stupid things, pushing all of his problems down deep.  Newt gave him a playful shove in retaliation, and Crowley gave him one back. 

“Ah, cheer up. Consider it... a learning experience.”  _And at least no-one’s making you carve the shit out of your hand,_ thought Crowley bitterly, but didn’t dare say it. He wanted the topic of him and Umbridge buried and forgotten as quickly as humanly possible. 

Newt nodded glumly, and Crowley was suddenly, terribly aware of how tired he was, three nights of barely any sleep bearing down on him. Newt was being remarkably okay about the whole situation, but he still had to face down Anathema and Aziraphale at lunch, and he was relatively sure that they’d be less willing to just drop the entire thing. And— did Crowley have Herbology today? He dug out his schedule, and for once, the knowledge that he did didn’t fill him with anticipation or happiness, just the looming, overwhelming feeling that this was all _so much_. He didn’t want to admit it, but there really was a lot more work this year, and he’d still have to go to detention tonight, he remembered glumly, the back of his hand prickling with dread, and— even fucking better— he had a proper DADA lesson, right before lunch. Crowley thought back to last night, and his heart began to race. What if Umbridge made him take off his sunglasses in the lesson? She wouldn’t, would she? She’d seen— she had to understand— Crowley thought he’d probably take more detentions, rather than  _that_. 

Second lesson, Charms, dragged by, stretching the day out even further, and the lengthy essay on the importance of using the correct wand movement(with required historical examples), that they were given at the end was almost enough to make Crowley lose it completely. After that, it was Potions, and after Crowley had handed in his ramshackle essay, he saw with a sinking feeling that he’d barely managed to scrape a P on his Draught of Peace— Poor, he dredged up from his miserably exhausted mind, not for the first time annoyed with the wizarding grading system and its infuriating lack of logic. Newt, meanwhile, had gotten a D (for Dreadful), and looked equally  miserable. 

“Think you’ll be taking potions N.E.W.T.?” Crowley muttered to Newt as he cut up his asphodel root, and Newt snorted bitterly. 

“D’you think I should sign up for it, just so see the look on Snape’s face?” 

Crowley sighed and chucked his roots into his cauldron with enough force that they hissed slightly on impact. Snape gave him a grease-filled glare, and Crowley rolled his eyes under his sunglasses. He fucking despised Potions. He wanted Potions to last forever, so that he wouldn’t have to go to DADA. He just wanted this miserable bloody day to end so he could go to bloody sleep. 

 The DADA lesson was predictably dull and terrible, with their main objective being, unsurprisingly, to read the next chapter of Wilbert Sodding Slinkhard in silence. Umbridge mostly left him alone, and to Crowley’s eternal relief, didn’t say anything about his sunglasses, but she made a point of repeatedly referring to him as Mr Jaeger, and he could practically feel the weight of his classmate’s stares on him, feel the association with the family, the bastards he’d tried so hard to distance himself from. Crowley went slightly red, and slumped forward, made himself as small as possible, pretending to be absolutely  _fascinated_ by common defensive magical theories and their derivation, or whatever the fuck it was. 

“I’ll be seeing you tonight, I’m sure, Mr Jaeger,” Umbridge trilled as Crowley made to leave at the end of the lesson, her gaze fixing hungrily on the back of his arm, and Crowley all but shuddered at the thought. 

 

When he and Newt arrived for lunch, there was an awkward silence that let Crowley know that the other two had definitely been talking about him, and he sat down and began picking at his food with a stony intensity. No-one spoke. 

 Eventually, Anathema broke the silence, clearing her throat awkwardly. 

“Look— Crowley— I’m sorry if I overstepped this morning. But I just... I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’m sorry.” There was something disgustingly pitying in her voice, and for a moment, just a moment, Crowley hated her. Crowley looked round and Newt, who was busily down at his potatoes as though they were the most interesting thing in the world, and at Aziraphale, who hadn’t spoken a word to Crowley since that morning, and who was also studiously avoiding his gaze. He put down his fork, and it clattered against his plate with an ugly metallic screech. 

“Look, I’m— I’m not made of glass, all right? I won’t break. And I am  _not_ —” he glared at Anathema— “your bloody rescue project. I don’t want your holier-than-thou pity.” 

Anathema glared back, a spark of anger igniting in her dark eyes. 

“I’m just trying to  _help_.” Her voice was clipped and taunt, and Crowley shook his head. 

“Yeah? Well, save it for someone who gives a shit,” he said, and stormed out. Anathema watched him go with fire in her eyes, and then whirled back round to Newt and Aziraphale, fingers digging into the tablecloth. 

“Thanks for all the help there, you two,” she snapped, but there was something high and slightly wobbly in her voice that let Aziraphale know she was genuinely upset. He felt a squirming coil of shame in his stomach, the knowledge that Crowley was his _friend_  and that he was upset and that Aziraphale should have done something. But as ever, he’d been too scared of saying the wrong thing or somehow making everything worse. Which had obviously worked out excellently for him. 

“I have Herbology with him fifth period,” offered Aziraphale finally, miserably, well aware that he would most likely balls it up. “I can try...”

“Look,” interjected Newt suddenly. “No offence or anything, but the two of you have known Crowley what, a week? I’ve known him for five years, all right? And  _that_ —” he used his butter knife to point to the door Crowley had run out of— “is not normal bloody behaviour. He’s  _upset_ , all right? And your amateur psychologist nonsense isn’t helping anyone.”

Anathema grabbed her own knife and pointed it threateningly at Newt, and for a surreal second, Aziraphale thought they were going to fence. 

“My amateur psychologist nonsense,” Anathema hissed back, “is a damned sight better than your bloody  _laissez-faire_ policy. At least I’m  _trying_  to help!”

Newt glared. 

“I don’t know what  _lazy-fuck_  or whatever means, and you know it!” 

Aziraphale decided then and there that this had gone on for quite long enough, and gently removed the knives from Newt and Anathema’s respective hands. 

“Look,” he said, with as much authority as he could manage to insert into his voice, “we’re all trying to help Crowley here, all right? And to be perfectly honest, we’re all doing a fairly terrible job, myself most definitely included. So— let’s just  _think_  about this for a second. Put our heads together, and all that.” Newt and Anathema stared at him, and Aziraphale could feel the tips of his ears going bright pink. Eventually, Anathema sighed wearily. 

“You’re right. As usual, you condescending bastard.” She turned to face Newt, shaking her head wearily. “I hate to admit it, but you do have a bit of a point. You’ve known Crowley far longer than either of us have, so... any ideas?” 

Newt shrugged wearily. 

“I dunno. Crowley, he’s... touchy. Private. I mean, there’s the whole sunglasses thing, and I barely know anything about his family, except that his cousins are wankers, obviously. I know you meant well and all, but I don’t think he really appreciated the, er, intrusion.” 

“The question is...” Aziraphale said slowly, “should we tell a teacher? I mean, let’s face it, we don’t exactly know what we’re doing, do we?”

“I said I wouldn’t,” said Anathema in a small voice. 

“Well yes, but we didn’t say anything of the sort,” Aziraphale reasoned. “So it’s not  _technically_ lying.”

“Sort of feels that way though, doesn’t it?” said Newt miserably, and the three of them lapsed into a glum silence. 

Aziraphale knew, reasonably, that telling a teacher wouldn’t miraculously solve the problem. But... it would take it off their shoulders just a tad. And maybe stop them from making such a pig’s ear of the situation. Or perhaps... Anathema’s eyes went wide, and the sheer look of horrified realisation on her face was enough to jolt Aziraphale from his thoughts as she suddenly reached for her satchel, a glossy black thing, and began to dig through it madly.

“Oh,  _shit_ ,” she said, in a voice shrill with panic, as she smoothed that morning’s copy of the Daily Prophet out onto the table. “I saw this out of the corner of my eye this morning, but it didn’t really register... oh, _shit, shit, shit_!”

Aziraphale leaned in to see what was going on, and was met with a grotesquely large image of Umbridge herself, simpering and waving. 

“Umbridge appointed first ever high inquisitor?” Newt read out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It  _means_ ,” said Aziraphale, a sick feeling of realisation weighing heavily on his gut, “that we could tell any teacher we liked, and none of them would be able to do a thing. Look:  _the inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure they’re up to scratch_ — she’s in charge now, essentially.” 

The three of them stared at each other in horror. Newt took up his butter-knife and began attacking the picture of Umbridge with it, scowling furiously. The photo-Umbridge stopped smiling rapidly, and began glaring up at Newt, face contorted with toadlike fury. 

“So we’re on our own, then?” he said glumly, scratching at the grimy black-and white picture with grim satisfaction. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “there’s always Dumbledore— I doubt Umbridge would be able to do too much against him.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Anathema muttered darkly. 

“What do we  _do_?” said Newt, finally, miserably. 

Aziraphale sighed. 

“Talking to Dumbledore just seems so—big. I don’t know— maybe we should talk to Crowley first. During Herbology. See what he thinks— it is him that this is happening to, after all.”

Anathema slowly nodded. 

“I don’t know if I like it— I’m relatively sure I know what his answer will be— but— I suppose you’d better.” 

When the bell finally went, Aziraphale headed off to Herbology, accompanied by Newt and a strong sense of dread. He still didn’t have the foggiest idea of what he was going to say to Crowley. But he had to figure it out, and fast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took SO LONG to write you don't even know but like. i hope you enjoy my incoherent panicky misery
> 
> all of your comments are?? so lovely?? and my replies are literally barely in english but?? thanks so much they make me so ridiculously happy :)
> 
> We're about 30k in now, which is utterly insane. thanks so much for reading!!


	16. Chapter 16

 

Crowley was already in the greenhouses when Newt and Aziraphale showed up, staring at the damp soil with a fixed intensity. He didn’t say a word when Aziraphale walked up, just continued to carefully water the bed around where their seeds would be. 

Aziraphale’s mind was full of deep, insightful things to say, but looking at Crowley and his little plastic watering can what came out was instead:

“You’re left handed. I hadn’t noticed.”

Crowley gave him an odd look. 

“What? Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Sinister,” mumbled Aziraphale, and Crowley looked even more confused. 

“ _What_?”

Aziraphale flushed. 

“Sinister used to mean left-handed, or being on the left hand side,” he explained awkwardly. “In the same way that dexter would refer to being on the right.” 

Crowley seemed to relax slightly. 

“Ah. Right,” he managed, and then turned back to inspect the bed of soil. “I hope they start to sprout soon,” he said after a little while. “I hate this bit, not being able to see what’s going on.” 

That was entirely how Aziraphale felt, albeit for entirely different reasons, and the Ravenclaw took a deep breath and began. 

“Look— about everything that’s going on— I just wanted to say—”

“I was going to ask if you could just—” Crowley began at the same time, and they both broke off, embarrassed. 

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley, looking so sincerely miserable that Aziraphale really did feel quite bad for him, “about— oh, you know— Anathema, and lunch, and everything. It’s just—“ he gestured wildly with his hands— “it all feels— so  _much_. And all of that— it just makes me feel so useless.” The words came slowly, haltingly, sort of tripping over one another as Crowley tried to express himself, the slight furrow between his dark brows as he frantically searched for the right words a feeling that Aziraphale himself was all too familiar with. 

“You— you do know Anathema’s just trying to help, don’t you?” said Aziraphale tentatively, trying to keep his voice as calm and even as possible. Crowley shrugged, a motion that seemed to consist solely of angles and corners and jagged edges. 

“I— well. I  _know_ that. Logically. But it just makes me feel so— small, I suppose. Stupid.” Crowley looked down at his feet, the dull, scuffed black of his battered shoes. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this. Sorry.” 

Aziraphale resisted the urge to grab hold of the other boy’s shoulders. 

“But you don’t have to be sorry! None of this is your fault— it’s  _Umbridge’s._ And— I’m sorry too. For not saying anything before. I was just—“ Aziraphale blushed slightly. “I was just— scared. Of saying the wrong thing.”  _Umbridge. Right. Bugger_. Aziraphale felt like he was finally getting somewhere, like he and Crowley were finally really talking. Did he really have to then drop this on the poor boy?

Yes. He did. Best to get it over with as soon as possible, he thought. Aziraphale took a deep breath, and dragged the damaged, slightly Newt-damaged remains of the Daily Prophet our of his satchel. 

“That reminds me,” he added quickly, before his brain had a chance to catch up with him. “There’s something I have to show you.” He handed the bedraggled newspaper to Crowley with a sorry smile. “We— well, that is to say, Anathema— only realised at lunch, after you’d—left.”

Crowley took the paper silently, any emotions hidden behind those dark lenses. “High inquisitor? That’s—  _shit_.”

“Yes, that’s what she said, too,” said Aziraphale wryly. “It’s— I know it’s bad—”

“It’s slightly more than  _bad_ , angel,” said Crowley, voice slightly husky. Aziraphale didn’t know why, but the nickname— the fact that Crowley had  _remembered_ , that their conversation had had some meaning to him— it made him feel oddly light, almost giddy. It was an utterly inappropriate feeling to be having, given the harrowed expression on Crowley’s face, but... it was there nonetheless. Aziraphale tucked it away for later evaluation. He tried to plaster a serious, knowing expression on his face, and nodded sincerely. 

“I know— it definitely makes getting a teacher involved a lot more difficult. But Dumbledore could still help.” Aziraphale leant forward, eyes shining with sincerity. “I do believe that. He’s not scared of You-Know-Who, remember? He can definitely handle the ministry.”

Crowley’s hand seemed to move almost of its own accord to cover the back of his left arm. His face seemed to go oddly taunt, as though some invisible shutter had been drawn down. Behind his sunglasses, Crowley closed his eyes for a second, trying to anchor himself. Telling someone, he knew, logically, was probably a good idea. Getting Umbridge in trouble was  _definitely_ a good idea. And yet, there was still that lingering instinct to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible, to  _hide_ , because telling anyone else would just make him look weaker, more vulnerable. An easier target. It would make this whole situation desperately, indelibly real. Crowley shook his head ever so slightly, and hated himself for the slight look of disappointment that slunk across the Ravenclaw’s face. Crowley desperately tried to explain, to come up with some sort of an excuse. 

“I just— the ministry already hates Dumbledore. I don’t want that to get worse because of me. And this’ll be over soon, honest. I doubt she’ll keep me for much longer than until the end of the week. And after that...” Crowley shrugged again. “I can just heal it. It’s fine. Really.”

Aziraphale didn’t understand, Crowley could see it in his eyes. But neither did he protest, just nodded vaguely and turned back to their seedlings. 

“It’s your choice,” Aziraphale said finally, still staring into the soil as though his Tentaculas would start to sprout and tell him what on Earth he was supposed to do. “But— Crowley— he could  _help_.” 

Crowley’s face took on the same hard look as he’d had at lunch. 

“I don’t need help. I’m fine. Why won’t any of you just listen to me?” Crowley gave a frustrated sigh, shoved his hair back and off his face, exposing just a hint of angry red marks that spilled down his left forearm as he did so. He caught sight of the look on Aziraphale’s face, and shoved his sleeve down. Aziraphale swallowed thickly. 

“Crowley,” the Ravenclaw forced out with some difficulty, not sure if he was even convincing  _himself_ , let alone the other boy, “I know you can get through this alone, all right? I know. But—“ and Aziraphale was angry now, angry with Crowley and his stupid pride, and positively fuming with Umbridge and the awful situation she’d put all of them in. He took a step closer to Crowley, saw the other boy tense up slightly as he did so. “But. Here’s the thing.  _You don’t have to_.” Aziraphale prodded Crowley in the chest to emphasise every word, which did require a hint of stretching, given just how much taller the other boy was. “We care about you, all right? Me and Anathema and Newt. And we just want to make sure you’re all right.” 

Crowley folded his arms defensively over his chest. 

“I’m  _fine_.” 

Aziraphale mirrored the gesture, feeling unreasonably stubborn all of a sudden. 

“The back of your arm begs to differ. As does the fact that you positively sprinted away at lunch, rather than have a  _civil conversation_  with us. Why are you so scared of telling anyone, Crowley? What’s the worst that could happen?”

Oh, how Crowley hated that question. Because the people who asked it never had any idea what the  _worst_  really was. Because it made all of his problems, his fears, seem stupid and trivial, made him feel even more pathetic than he did already. Newt had asked him that once, back in their second year, before Crowley had had to go back to the Jaeger mansion for another month of misery. His suggested answers had been being grounded or Hastur and Ligur making stupid comments. Crowley had been thinking more along the lines of things breaking against marble and it being illegal, actually illegal, for him to fix himself. 

And he stared down at the Ravenclaw, warm brown eyes locked on dark glass. He was vaguely aware that he was laughing, a high, hysterical laugh that just about bordered on a sob. Some of the stubborn anger in Aziraphale’s eyes shifted to concern. 

“Crowley— please— I’m  _worried_. About you. And I don’t know what I’m doing. None of us do. So let’s go and talk to someone who does, all right?” 

Crowley was about to retort, he didn’t know what, exactly, but something very angry and very stupid, when Professor Sprout neared their little table with an expression of concern written on her lined face. 

“Oh, are the two of you not getting along?” she said, clapping a hand on Crowley’s bony shoulder, not seeming to notice how stiff the Hufflepuff has gone. “That’s a shame. I had such high hopes for the two of you, I thought you’d make a lovely pair....”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but Crowley gave him a look and he thought the better of it. Crowley adjusted his sunglasses slighlty, and turned to face Professor Sprout, plastering a smile on his face as he did so.

“Oh, we are,” he gushed, the words spilling out bright and easy. “The Tentaculas are coming along nicely, I’m sure. Me and Aziraphale here were just having a small argument about...er...”

“Essay structure,” said Aziraphale, glaring at Crowley slightly. He did not appreciate having to lie to a teacher. “Nothing to worry about, really— just me being picky...” 

Professor Sprout looked relieved. “Oh, good. I’m glad the two of you are working well together, in that case. You’re my best students, you know.” Don’t tell the others. She gave them a conspirational wink, and then her face turned grave again, perhaps registering the tension that still hung thick in the air. “You two are getting on all right, aren’t you?” 

Aziraphale nodded earnestly. “Oh, most definitely! Crowley’s so...dedicated. And he has a real love for plants. It’s incredible.” Aziraphale went slightly red, But Crowley seemed to catch on, because his fake smile seemed to stretch even wider, until it looked as though it might break. 

“And Aziraphale’s so intelligent,” he gushed, and Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from going even redder, even though he knew full well that this was all some desperate ploy. “And he really— he really seems to care about this, you know? He  _tries_. Maybe sometimes slightly too hard,” Crowley added, with a slightly accusatory bite to his tone that the professor didn't seem to notice, but that Aziraphale certainly did. Professor Sprout gave the two of them a warm smile, and then turned sharply as a loud crashing sound came from Newt’s area of the room. Professor Sprout muttered something rude-sounding under her breath and then hurried off to investigate, leaving the two of them behind. Aziraphale whirled around. 

“I just  _lied_ to a _teacher_  for you,” he said, tone accusatory. 

Crowley threw his hands up, exasperated, but kept his voice down so that Professor Sprout wouldn’t come back. 

“I didn’t ask you to. You did that one all of your own accord, angel.” 

Aziraphale had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. 

“You’re impossible. And— look, would telling Professor Sprout really be so bad? She’s nice, you  _know_ that.”

Crowley shrugged, not trusting himself to answer, and turned back to face the plant bed. 

“I mean, I realise the whole essay structure thing was just to get Sprout off our case— nice one, by the way— but we probably should be getting on with some essay work, you know. It’s not like there’s too much other stuff we can be getting on with now, anyway.”

Aziraphale went very red. 

“Don’t try and distract me with schoolwork, you—  _you_. This is more important.” 

Crowley lifted a dark eyebrow. 

“More important than your Herbology O.W.L.?”

Aziraphale hesitated. Just for a second. He wasn’t proud of that. 

“Yes. Absolutely. You’re my  _friend,_  Crowley.” This didn’t seem to have the comforting effect Aziraphale was hoping for— Crowley just kind of stood there, looking lost and slightly sad. Aziraphale wondered with a vague sort of panic if Crowley had been serious about the whole essay thing— he had said that this was his favourite subject. Of course he’d want a good grade. He cleared his throat.“Er. That is. I did start on an essay last night. You know. If you were worried.” Crowley stared at him at let out an incredulous laugh— a low, genuine thing, not like the high, eerie noises he’d been making earlier, and Aziraphale felt his heart flutter hopefully. 

“You’re completely mad, angel, you know that?” said Crowley, his voice slightly wobbly. 

Aziraphale nodded. 

“Oh, very probably. Look— Crowley— what about a compromise?” 

Crowley cocked his head to one side. 

“A compromise?”

“We’ll give it until the end of the week. I won’t tell anyone else for now, and I’ll make sure Newt and Anathema don’t either. We can see how you feel then— reassess the situation, as it were.” 

Crowley turned this over in his head— with any luck, Umbridge would be done with him by the end of the week anyway. And it gave him some time to figure this whole thing out. He nodded shakily, not quite trusting his voice. 

“Thanks, angel,” he managed eventually. “You’re— a really great friend.” 

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, who stood awkwardly, not entirely sure of what to say next, an oddly forlorn figure with his sunglasses and his robe sleeves pulled down as far as they would go. He shook his head. 

“Oh, come here, you  _idiot_ ,” he said, and Crowley let out a little  _oomph_  of surprise as Aziraphale pulled him in for a hug. 

Aziraphale was warm, and pudgy, and soft, and his small frame latched itself around Crowley’s waist with a surprising force, while Crowley was bony and had skin that always seemed to be slighlty cooler than it should strictly be, but he awkwardly clasped his arms around the smaller boy and pulled him close, as though he could absorb some of his warmth. It was only when he noticed the prickling eyes of his classmates that Crowley finally clumsily disentangled himself from Aziraphale, blushing furiously. 

“Right. Erm. So what essay structure _do_ you recommend?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you happy now?? Crowley finally got his hug and it only took us about 30 thousand words :)
> 
> As ever, thanks so much for reading and for all your lovely comments and kudos!!


	17. Chapter 17

Conversation at dinner was stilted, to say the least, but at least they were all sat down and having a conversation, and no-one was running off or fighting too viciously. Crowley had awkwardly apologised to Newt and Anathema for running off at lunch, and Anathema had apologised in return, albeit slightly frostily. And now the four of them sat in near-perfect silence, picking at their respective plates. Aziraphale looked across at Crowley, who was pushing a roast potato across his plate with remarkably little enthusiasm, and remembered the conversation he’d had with Newt at lunch.

“So. Crowley. You live with your uncle, don’t you?”

Crowley looked up, dark hair flopping over his face. He looked exhausted, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame him— it had been such an incredibly long day.

“Hmm? Yeah. Him, and my cousins. Hastur and Ligur.”

Aziraphale nodded— the names were vaguely familiar. Then again, they were unusual enough that you would expect them to stick.

“Gosh, I suppose Anthony’s not so bad, is it? When you consider that you could have ended up with _Ligur_?”

Crowley snorted.

“Yeah, I suppose. They’re over there,” he added, jerking his head towards the Slytherin table. “They’re the big stupid ones.”

Newt smirked.

“It’s _Slytherin_ , mate, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that.”

Anathema reached across the table to give Newt a shove.

“Oi. _I’m_ a Slytherin, remember?”

“My point still stands,” said Newt, fighting to keep a straight face as Anathema waggled her fork at him threateningly.

“It’s bloody true in the case of those two, anyway,” said Crowley wearily. “They had to redo a year, remember? Fucked up their O.W.L.s.”

Aziraphale groaned.

“That’ll be me, judging by the state of the history of magic spec...”

Newt and Crowley made small noises of outrage at this. Anathema just sort of rolled her eyes, having heard this all before.

“Sorry,” said Crowley, sounding quite affronted, “but if you fail your O.W.L.s, I may as well just fuck off now and avoid the bother.”

Aziraphale went red.

“I’m really not that smart, you know. I just do my revision.”

Anathema shook her head wearily.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that? You could get 100% and still reckon you could have done better.”

Newt sighed.

“I’d be happy with just a pass in potions, but we all know I’m not going to be allowed to do it for N.E.W.T even if I get an O, Snape just hates me that much...”

“He always picks favourites, the greasy bastard,” Crowley agreed. “Usually the bloody Slytherins, to no-one's surprise.”

Anathema folded her arms across her chest defensively.

“I am feeling _very_ discriminated against this evening,” she said, tone heavy with mock indignation.

“Ah, don’t worry, you’re still better than the bloody Gryffindors, the absolute tossers,” said Newt, and they were off again, a chorus of groans and excited chatter as they fought to recount every slight the Gryffindor house had ever committed against them. Aziraphale watched their little group, bickering and squabbling amongst one another, having impassioned discussions about nothing in particular, and felt a warm glow in his stomach. Just this afternoon, Crowley had run off, they’d all been fighting amongst themselves, and he’d felt more stupid and powerless than he had in a long time. But now... he watched as the low candlelight glinted off the iridescent black surfaces of Crowley’s sunglasses as he laughed at something Newt had said, how he arched his head backwards, the way the brown skin of his throat caught the light. The way the four of them seemed to have come together, and even if nothing was solved yet— even if functionally, they were still in the same place as that morning— it felt better. He felt— it had barely been a week, but pushed together by by all of this misery, somehow these were _his people_ , Aziraphale realised, the people he was probably closer to than anyone else in the world. And they would deal with this, somehow. And it was all right if he didn’t know all the answers, because no-one else seemed to know, either. They were all just muddling through as best they could. Aziraphale thought back to Herbology, to how Crowley had felt in his arms, almost bird-like, the way his arms had wrapped around Aziraphale, pulling him in tighter, and he felt happier than he had in a long time.

Until Crowley’s face seemed to freeze in the middle of Newt’s anatomically improbable story about the Gryffindor quidditch team, the mirth visibly sliding off his face. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Yeah, well, I’d best be going... Umbridge awaits, and all that.” He clumsily extracted himself from the table, swinging his long legs over the bench, and the rest of them subsided into a careful silence, this moment suddenly much more significant than it had seemed the last few nights, now that they understood exactly what Crowley was heading off too.

Aziraphale swallowed nervously. “Well... good luck, I suppose.”

Crowley laughed bitterly.

“Not sure what good that’ll do me, but thanks anyway, I suppose.” He gazed round at them, something unreadable etched on his face, and then shook his head, wiping the thought away. “See you tomorrow then, I suppose.” He gave a half-wave, then shouldered his bag and walked off and out of the brightness of the great hall, into the shadowy corridors beyond. Aziraphale watched him go with an odd feeling of apprehension.

Anathema flicked her dark hair over her shoulders.

“I do hope he’ll be all right,” she murmured, evidently sharing Aziraphale’s concerns.

“He will be,” Aziraphale replied, with more certainty than he really felt. “We’ll make sure of it. Somehow.”

“Somehow,” Anathema agreed in a husky voice, and Crowley’s empty seat seemed to watch them judgementally.

 

Crowley stalked through the near-empty corridors to Umbridge’s office, trying to fight off the early autumn chill that was already seeping in through the castle’s cracked stone walls. He supposed the Scottish highlands had been a good location for a school full of radgy magical teenagers, in that it was as isolated as it was possible to get within Britain, but the problem was, he reflected bitterly, that it was so bloody cold. Crowley pulled his robes tighter around his scrawny frame, and shuddered. He wasn’t looking forward to winter.  
Umbridge’s office almost seemed to creep up on him, as it always did, jolting him out of his thoughts in a great violent burst of sickly-sweet pink. Crowley shuddered again, nothing to do with the cold this time, and waited. It felt different this time, with people knowing what was going to happen, what had once been such a private thing between him and Umbridge, something that could be forgotten or at least pushed back once he’d left, but now— now it felt indelible, serious, the words carved into his hand red and raw, and prickling with anticipation. Crowley took a deep breath and swallowed nervously, waiting to be summoned to his doom. It was almost funny, he thought: more people knew now than ever, and yet as Umbridge finally beckoned him in with a simpering smile, Crowley had never felt more alone.

His hand opened up faster than ever, a thin film of blood coating the back of his hand to match the bloody letters he etched into the page, line by line, as quickly as he possibly could. It _hurt_ , and he wanted to stop, he really did, but he needed to get this over with— Crowley felt more exhausted than he ever had in his life, and wasn’t particularly excited for his fourth night of zero sleep, but more than that, there was the fear that Aziraphale or Anathema or Newt or someone was going to rush in at any moment and see him like this, his alien eyes and his fucked-up hand, and so he wrote faster and faster, carved deeper and deeper, until his skin seemed to stop healing up all together.

 _I must respect my elders._  
_I must respect my elders._

It was the fact that it was the achingly familiar squiggles of his own spidery handwriting that made it worse, somehow, the fact that these were his words, that he was the one doing this to himself. That he had no alternative.

_I must respect my elders._

The sides of Crowley’s fingers were smudged red, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the page or from his hand.

_I must respect my elders._

The more times Crowley wrote the phrase out, the more something began to occur to him, deep in the pit of his stomach, a little flicker of irritation: this was, he was vaguely aware, _bullshit_. What the fuck had Umbridge ever done to earn his respect? What, for that matter, had his uncle? Who’d come up with that stupid idea anyway, that just because someone was older than you, they automatically knew better? It just served to keep people down, small, subservient.  
Why did he have to put up with this?

Well, what other choice did he have?

Umbridge wasn’t just a teacher now: she was the bloody high inquisitor of Hogwarts. She worked directly for the ministry. There was nothing Crowley could possibly against her, and he resented that.

 _Not that you were brave enough to do anything against her even when she was just another teacher, now were you, though?_ said a snide voice in his head, and Crowley told it to shut up.

_I must respect my elders._

Crowley wanted to scream. Or go the fuck to sleep, and just stop _thinking_ for a few hours. Turn it all off. How late was it now? He must have been here for an hour at least, and for some reason, tonight he couldn’t drag his mind away to plants or dreams or even to a tired sort of white emptiness; the whole room seemed to scream at him in sharp detail, every fibre of pink nailing him in place, pinning him down.

His eyes were sore, and so was his head, and so was his hand, and _fuck_ , Crowley was just so tired. He’d still have to go and water the tentaculas after this, he knew, and he had a huge pile of homework that would have to get done at some point, and— he just wanted— a pause. A chance to collect his thoughts. Aziraphale’s week-long extension had seemed like such a wonderful idea that afternoon, but now Crowley was too tired to even think straight, exhaustion settling deep and cold into his bones. He hadn’t even had a chance to think about the possibility of telling someone, because he hadn’t had a chance to _think_ , period, time swirling out of his hands into a spiral of Umbridge and dread and exhaustion.

_I must respect my elders._

Crowley looked up, hoping that there might be a clock hidden up on the wall somewhere amongst the kittens and pink and general grimness of the wall, but froze when a pair of mud-brown eyes locked into his yellow ones.

Crowley hadn’t realised, up until now, quite how much protection his sunglasses had offered, and he swallowed nervously, not quite daring to look away. Umbridge’s lips twisted into a rictus grin.

“No, Mr Jaeger, it’s not very pleasant, is it?” said Umbridge, pouting. She beckoned at him with one squat finger, covered in a selection of wide, flat rings that could perhaps be described as _tacky_ , if one was feeing generous, or possibly _horrendous_ , if one wasn’t. “Let’s see if my message is sinking in, then.”

Crowley slowly got up, hoping against hope that this hellish evening was finally over, wobbly legs unsteadily making their way over to Umbridge’s desk. Crowley extended his left wrist, let his eyes slip closed, just for a second, and found that he suddenly had the oddest desire to _pray_ , to get some higher power to sort all of this out, because fuck knew that he couldn’t. He just didn’t want to have to be the one to tell that power, to _beg_ , to submit himself to more humiliation and chances to be hurt.

Umbridge latched onto his wrist, fingernails digging into skin, with such intensity that Crowley flinched.

“Yes, Mr Jaeger. Not quite as fun when it’s _your_ wrist being viciously grabbed, is it?” Crowley let out a small sound that might have been a squeak, and hated himself for it. Umbridge finally, mercifully, loosened her grip on his wrist, and proceeded to run one finger along the livid red letters across the back of Crowley’s hand. Crowley bit back a yelp at the red-hot surge of pain. Umbridge’s smile widened, hungry. “Hmmm. I finally seem to be making an impression. Very well, Mr Jaeger, would you say you’ve learnt your lesson?”  
Crowley nodded mutely, not quite daring to speak, not quite trusting his voice. Umbridge blinked slowly, stubbly eyelashes sliding over oddly bulbous eyes.

“What was that, Mr Jaeger?”

Crowley bit back a scowl.

“I’ve learnt my lesson,” he intoned, voice as blank as he could make it.

“You’ve learnt your lesson...”

This time, Crowley could barely suppress a sigh.

“I’ve learnt my lesson, _Professor Umbridge_ ,” he said wearily. _Now can I please just put my glasses back on and go the fuck to sleep?_

Umbridge tapped her fingers on the desk, infuriating slowly, and Crowley stood stock still, every muscle in his body tensed. He felt ready to run for it, or throw something, or cry.  
After a silence that Crowley reckoned had probably taken a good ten years off his lifespan, Umbridge finally spoke, her simpering voice sharp with venom.

“Your behaviour after this is going to be exemplary, of course, Mr Jaeger. Not a toe out of line, hmm?”

Crowley nodded glumly.

“Of course... Professor.”

Umbridge nodded decisively.

“Because, Mr Jaeger, if you disrupt my lessons again, I do hope you realise there will be... consequences.”

Umbridge slathered another wide, plastic smile onto the toadlike expanse of her face. Crowley just stood there, arm still outstretched on the desk, entirely unsure of what to do.

Umbridge waved a hand dismissively.

“Right then, Mr Jaeger, you may go.”

Crowley stared at her in exhausted disbelief.

“But I— do I have to come back tomorrow night? Professor?”

Umbridge wasn’t even looking at him anymore, but rifling through her desk in search of some elusive object.

“Not unless you find some new way to displease me in the meantime, Mr Jaeger...”

Oh, Crowley hated, _hated_ the rush of gratitude, bitter and sickly, that overwhelmed him at that, hated the idea that he ought to be thankful to Umbridge for any of this. Crowley yanked his arm back, collected up his things, carefully placing his sunglasses back over his eyes with a small sigh of relief as the cool darkness overwhelmed him, and then got out of the acidic brightness of Umbridge’s office as quickly as physically possible.  
Crowley made his way down to the greenhouses, head filled with a confusing mess of thoughts. He was happy, relieved. He should be. He was free of Umbridge now. The whole mess was over now, wasn’t it?

_Wasn’t it?_

He wasn’t in detention any more. He wouldn’t be going through... that any more. So there was no point in telling anyone, because they wouldn’t be able to do anything to help, because there was nothing to help with anymore. It was over. He’d just have to make sure he was impeccably behaved in DADA now, that was all.

But... what if someone else got put in detention, and had to go through that? Because Crowley was too fucking pathetic to tell anyone? How could he let that happen?

How could he do anything else?

Crowley groaned slightly. Why did this all have to land on him? Why couldn’t someone else take responsibility— Potter, for instance, he thought with a flash of inspiration. He was in detention too, after all. That would certainly make things a hell of a lot easier on him.  
And there he went again, expecting someone else to magically swoop in and fix all his problems for him. When the fuck was he going to learn that that wasn’t ever going to fucking happen?

Crowley shook his head, trying to clear out his mess of thoughts, and turned the corner over to the greenhouses mechanically, barely taking in his surroundings. He just needed to _sleep._ But the way his thoughts kept spinning, he doubted he’d be able to and besides, he had plants to water.

Crowley grabbed hold of his little green watering can and the sack of chizpurfle powder, and made his way through the warm, familiar night air of the greenhouse, finally daring to relax, just a little. The easy routine, the familiarity of it, the simple physicality of doing something with his hands, building something... it meant more to Crowley than he could properly articulate. He ran one hand along the worn wooden bottom of the plant beds, exhaling deeply as he did so, and slowly rounded the corner to where his and Aziraphale’s Tentacula seeds were.

Crowley broke into a toothy smile.

There, in the centre of the plant bed, were four small, spiky things, dark green spiralling out of soil. Something clenched, deep in his chest, and Crowley felt his smile spread across his face, wild and slightly shaky.

The tentaculas had sprouted.

Slowly, Crowley knelt down until he was at eye level with the small plants, watched as the small tentacles reached probingly, curiously towards his face, not quite able to reach.

“Hello,” murmured Crowley softly, reaching out with one long, bony finger to gently stroke each little seedling. “I’ve only got powder for you tonight, sorry about that. I’ll get you some proper food tomorrow. But this’ll do for now, yeah? Give you all your nutrients, and that...” Crowley slowly began to spread the chizpurfle powder over the plant bed, letting himself relax into the routine, feeling his shoulders unclench. “Now that you’re here, I suppose,” he continued conversationally, “I’m going to lay down some ground rules. You’re growing to grow extraordinarily well. You’re going to be the most beautiful tentacula plants the world has ever _seen_. You’re going to make Professor Sprout weep with joy, and you’re going to get me an O in Herbology. And do you know why you’re going to do all that?” Crowley gave the plants his biggest, brightest smile, and waited for a beat, as though expecting a response. “Because there are four of you. And I only need _one_.”

Crowley set down his watering can with a dramatic flourish, and flounced out of the greenhouse, quite unable to suppress his delirious, exhausted, stupidly happy smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of this was written at 3 am and i had 2 tests today and am totally brain dead so i hope this is like. legible. 
> 
> thank you so much for all your lovely comments on the last chapter, i really can't express how happy they made me :) this fic really means a lot to me and i'm so glad you guys seem to like it!!


	18. Chapter 18

 

The next day was Saturday, their first weekend of the year at Hogwarts, and Crowley woke up to find he’d slept through about half of it, finally dragging himself out of bed at about half eleven. Crowley adjusted his glasses so that they perched straight on his nose, and blearily pulled on his robes, gazing round at the empty dorm room as he did so. He’d missed breakfast completely, and would have to wait for about an hour for lunch, which in itself wasn’t necessarily too bad, but this particular morning he really did rather want to find Aziraphale. The thought of the four small green plants gently waving their small tentacles at him still made him stupidly happy. It felt so good to be doing something _right_ for once. 

Crowley made his way out into the Hufflepuff common room— no Newt, all right, fine, he’d just have to look a bit further to see where everyone was, it wasn’t  _that_  big of a drafty old Scottish castle—  and then continued on his way, past the squashy armchairs and out into the windy little corridor that ran just past the kitchens. Crowley’s stomach twinged in resentment as he brushed past the leftover Sunday Breakfast smells— toast and eggs and  _bacon_ —  but finally getting a decent amount of sleep did seem to have done him some good, calming him down and restoring the ability of at least semi-coherent thought. 

He decided to look for the others in the library first, figuring that no-one in their little group was exactly what one might call  _outdoorsy_ , and besides, there was an ominously large pile of homework in Crowley’s bag that he knew he’d have to face at some point, and if even he was aware of this, after having spent the last week in a semi-catatonic state, he reckoned the others definitely were.  

He really did hope that Aziraphale was as enthusiastic about the plants as he was. What if he thought Crowley was overreacting? Or childish? No, Crowley thought, pushing the idea away, Aziraphale wouldn’t be like that. He hoped. He’d be pleased, even if it was only because he reckoned it’d help his Herbology grade. 

_Bugger_. Crowley supposed he’d have to get started on an essay for the tentaculas at some point as well today. Just another thing to add to his steadily-growing mountain of homework.  

 

Predictably, Crowley did find Aziraphale in the library, bent over a huge, leather-bound tome, although there was no sign of Newt or Anathema. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed Crowley yet, utterly engrossed in whatever it was that he was reading, but the way that he was sitting, the bright mid-morning light that filtered in through the window caught in his hair, illuminating the strands of brown and caramel and even _gold_ amongst the black. It looked almost like a halo. _Angel indeed_ , thought Crowley, mildly amused despite himself. 

Aziraphale, Crowley had noticed over the past few days, had very nice hair. It was long and thick and curly in a way that really made Crowley want to run his hands through it, and although upon first glance it appeared so dark it was almost black, a closer look revealed interwoven threads of lighter browns, a whole tapestry of them, in a stupidly large range of colours, from deepest mahogany to lighter strands that Crowley would swear looked golden in the right light. Stray strands would frizz out and catch the light sometimes, and Crowley would stare at them, fascinated at all the colours that made up _brown_. 

Crowley’s own hair was dark and lanky and overlong and sort of flopped over his forehead, and he tried to gel it up sometimes, only he reckoned it made him look like a bit of a twat. 

Reckoning that he’d been staring long enough that it was starting to get a bit creepy now, Crowley awkwardly cleared his throat and leaned over, trying to catch the other boy’s attention. Aziraphale looked up, jolted out of his thoughts, and gave Crowley an awkward smile. 

“Oh, you’re up! Newt didn’t think you’d get out of bed until at least noon.”

Crowley gave a lopsided grin. 

“Yeah, well. Didn’t want to deprive you lot of my incredible company a minute longer than strictly necessary.” 

Aziraphale gave a slightly huffy smile in return, closing his book with a surprising amount of tenderness. 

“Well. Thank you for gracing me with your presence, I suppose.” He blinked, suddenly serious. “How was— you know— detention?”

Crowley fiddled with his sleeve and wondered if there was some sort of spell that would stop him from going bright bloody red every five seconds or so. 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” he said as airily as possible. Aziraphale still looked a tad concerned, so he quickly continued. “I mean, not fun, obviously. But that was the last one, I’m off the hook now, as long as I behave, of course. So that’s all right.”

“Of course,” echoed Aziraphale, not sounding particularly happy about it.  Crowley nodded and smiled brightly, not quite sure who he was trying to convince. He remembered, suddenly, that there had, actually, been a purpose to this little excursion of his. 

“Oh! I don’t suppose you’ve been down to the greenhouses yet today?” 

Aziraphale gave him a wary look, but seemed happy enough to accept the change of subject. 

“No, I can’t say that I have.” He paused, suddenly looking terribly concerned. “Was I supposed to? I’m ever so sorry, it must have slipped my mind, only I had all this charms homework—” he broke off suddenly, and brightened, reaching into his bag. “I did finish off my first essay last night though, I do hope it’s all right...” he pulled out an almost offensively large roll of parchment, which Crowley looked at in mixed horror and admiration. Was Aziraphale going to expect him to write essays of that length? 

“That’s— er— well, it’s very long,” Crowley finished lamely. A hint of worry crept over Aziraphale’s face. 

“Oh no, do you think it’s too much? You’re right, I should probably go back and simplify it a bit, I don’t want to overcomplicate things...”

“No!” Crowley said quickly, in what he hoped was a vaguely reassuring tone of voice. “No, no, not at all, I was just impressed that you’d put so much effort in, that’s all. This is incredible. Really.” 

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to go red, awkwardly tucking a stray curl behind one ear. 

“I— it was nothing, really. I’m glad you think so.” 

Crowley nodded enthusiastically. 

“Absolutely. And it doesn’t matter that you haven’t been to the greenhouses today. It’s quite good, honestly. Look, would you like to go down now? I’ve got something to show you.” 

Aziraphale shot his book a worried glance. 

“Well, I don’t know, I do have a fair bit of work to be getting on with...”

“It won’t take long,” Crowley said, voice as wheedling as he could make it. “Honest. I’ve got tons of stuff to be getting on with as well, it’ll just be a quick trip.”

Aziraphale nodded, slightly mollified. There was something so desperately _earnest_  about Crowley, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

“Oh, all right then,” he said, gently tucking his book into his satchel. “But _quickly_.” 

Crowley grinned triumphantly, his whole face seeming to light up for just a moment and looking oddly _young_ as he did so. 

“Excellent. Come on then, angel.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t call me that,” said Aziraphale as he quickly tidied up the rest of his things, but only half-heartedly. Crowley’s grin turned ever-so-slighlty pointy. 

“Why on Earth not? It’s two syllables shorter than your actual name. That’s two more syllables during which I can be imparting my infinite wisdom.”

“Your infinite wisdom,” said Aziraphale, raising one eyebrow slightly. Crowley nodded sagely. 

“It’s very wise. And very infinite.” He absently stretched out a hand to help Aziraphale to his feet. Aziraphale reached up to take it, then stopped, eyes widening, as he caught sight of the bloody red marks, somehow much deeper and more violent-looking than they had been yesterday, unmistakably words. 

“Oh— Crowley— your _hand_ —”

Crowley snatched back his arm, feeling his face go warm and mentally berating himself for being so bloody stupid. 

“I— look, I’ll heal it up later— look, we’d better get going to the greenhouses, you have homework and stuff, like you said...” Crowley trailed off weakly. Aziraphale, to his surprise, looked rather hurt. 

“Is that really all you think I care about? O.W.L.s, and my homework?” 

Crowley stared down at his feet, self-conscious and stupid, feeling some of that old feeling of exhaustion creeping up on him. 

“Well, no, of course not. But it is a thing that you care about, a lot. That’s not a bad thing,” Crowley added quickly, as he caught sight of the look on Aziraphale’s face, “it might be a good thing, even. A lot of the teachers would certainly think so, but...”

Aziraphale sat back down with a sigh. 

“Well. I don’t know. I suppose maybe it is, sometimes. A bad thing. I just get very— I feel like I have to do brilliantly, all the time, or I’m utterly useless.”

Crowley slowly sat down opposite him. 

“Do you think— could some of that come from being a muggleborn, d’you reckon? Sorry if that’s offensive, or anything.” _Or am I the only one who fixates constantly on his family, on what other people think? On what I want them to think?_

Aziraphale gave him a considering look, slightly surprised by the question. 

“Yes. No. Yes. Well, I suppose that with that, and my skin colour, and everything— I’m tired of feeling like my whole life has to be some sort of grand political statement. And you’re right, I suppose it does feel like I’m representing all muggleborns, or something— like if I fail, we’re all useless. But... more than that...” Aziraphale bit his lip, suddenly realising how personal this conversation had gotten. And how about _him_ , when Crowley’s hand was still an utter, rather painful-looking mess, when for all his grand ideas and solutions, he’d done absolutely _nothing_ to help. How did he always, _always_ manage to make everything about himself? But Crowley was still staring at him with that same solemn, sunglasses-dark earnestness, as though he really cared about what Aziraphale had to say, and so he swallowed and kept going. He was asking Crowley to be vulnerable, wasn’t he? To tell other people about his problems. It was only fair that he did the same. “It’s... my parents are not the biggest fans of the wizarding world, as it were. They don’t understand it, and they don’t _like_  it, and they think I’m going to end up with no real qualifications and no real prospects. And so I suppose... I have to prove myself, I think. I have to be a good— an _exceptional_ wizard, to show them that this is worthwhile, that I belong here, because if I fail, if I slip up...” Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath, tried to catch a glimpse of Crowley’s reaction underneath the sunglasses. “I’m scared that they’ll send me away, make me go to a muggle school somewhere halfway through GCSE year where I’ll know no-one and nothing and just be _miserable_ all the time, and if that doesn’t happen, I’m scared they’ll make me do GCSEs alongside my O.W.L.s or something, and it’s all so much as it is...” Aziraphale trailed off, throat dry and heart pounding, feeling like he’d said too much and it was all stupid and he’d said it all wrong anyway. A strange half-smile played around Crowley’s lips. 

“You _care_ so much,” he said, voice low and slightly husky. “About magic. And Hogwarts. It’s... I mean. I don’t know.  I don’t think it could ever _mean_  all that to me. There’s too much... stuff,” Crowley finished, waving one hand wildly to illustrate his point. Magic was wonderful. But the Jaegers and Umbridge and all the stares and the sneers, that he reckoned he could live without. No matter the cost. 

Aziraphale smiled back, slightly shyly. 

“It’s— I don’t know. Maybe that’s related to me being a muggleborn as well. Maybe magic just feels more special to me, somehow, because I didn’t grow up with it. Because as silly as it is... even though it’s difficult, and too much, sometimes, and it most certainly stresses me out, I love Hogwarts. I love magic. This is where I _belong_.” Madam Pince’s offer came back to Aziraphale, suddenly. To just stay here, and work as a librarian. It sounded...perfect, actually. It would also make his parents _furious_. 

Crowley fumbled with his sunglasses, and Aziraphale caught the faintest glimpse of mottled skin, and felt something tighten in his chest. 

“Oh, I’ve been going on about myself so much— I’m sorry— look, your arm, I know you’re out of detention now and that’s a good thing, obviously, but that looks incredibly painful, if nothing else, so would you _please_  not tell me you’re fine when you’re so blatantly not?”

Crowley pushed back his chair with a high, grating noise that caused Madam Pince to send him a death glare from across the room, and stood up. 

“Look, you said I had a week, yeah? So please just— let me sort it all out in my own head first. Now, do you want to come down to look at some plants with me, or not?” 

Aziraphale nodded, slightly warily, and picked up his satchel, and the two of them slowly made their way down to the greenhouses. Crowley seemed to brighten up almost as soon as they left the library, switching topics and tones with a disconcerting smoothness. Crowley seemed to be made up entirely of contradictions, of long limbs filled with smooth, sinewy grace but also jittery awkwardness, hard angles and soft hollows, one moment somehow inspiring Aziraphale to say more intensely personal things than he had in—well, ever, really— and the next making some sort of inane joke about where, exactly the Gryffindor quidditch team could go stick their brooms. And it bothered Aziraphale slightly, that he could see all of these things in a remarkable amount of detail, but not quite understand the person they added up to. But that would come, he supposed. He’d never... this felt different from making friends with Anathema. It felt deeper, more urgent. And that made sense, Aziraphale supposed. They were different people, after all. If you put it that way, even _Aziraphale_  was a different person now, from when he’d been eleven and an idiot and had wanted to find out as much as possible about magic and to forget about the look on his mother’s face as he’d gotten on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, worry and disapproval and something that Aziraphale thought might even have been resentment. And Anathema had been brilliant, still was— clever and confident and always perfectly willing to share things about the wizarding world with Aziraphale in a way that didn’t make him feel utterly stupid. And they’d filled their days with highbrow discussions of books they didn’t really understand but desperately wanted to, and moaned about the state of the world whilst doing absolutely nothing to change it. And that had all been well and good, and Aziraphale would always, always be fiercely fond of Anathema for it. But maybe now... maybe he sort of didn’t completely want to be that person anymore. Bits of him, yes. He still loved his books and his talks with Anathema and everything, but he supposed there was a small part of him that had had enough of just _talking_ , or even worse, of taking all those thoughts of his, soap-bubble shimmering and delicate, and just bottling them up and hiding then away, because they might not come out right. Maybe he ought to just start saying things, and then sort them out afterwards. 

Gosh, it was quite sad, when he thought about it, that he only had one proper friend, had only really gone through that experience once. But _one_ had been all he’d needed, someone to anchor him, make him feel normal. Now... maybe he needed someone else. Someone who made him speak out, try to do things. Someone he wanted to make things better for, be better for. 

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, and smiled. 

 

By the time they reached the greenhouses, a kind of nervous energy was crackling off Crowley, fumbling with his sunglasses and fussing with his hair and digging his short, jagged fingernails down into his nail beds. Aziraphale noticed this with bemused apprehension, not quite understanding what, exactly, could elicit this sort of reaction from Crowley. The other boy at least usually tried to appear composed and unbothered. He’d done his best to show no reaction at all to the whole ghastly Umbridge situation, hiding it under a layer of faux-suaveness, and yet...

Crowley pushed open the door to greenhouse five, and Aziraphale felt a gentle wave of heat roll over his skin, staving off the autumn chill. Crowley’s mouth eased into a smile. 

“Come on, then,” he said, voice bright and cheery in a way that wasn’t _quite_  the strained tone of voice he’d used to talk about Umbridge, but didn’t seem completely relaxed, either. “Almost there.” 

He led Aziraphale round to where he knew their tentacula seeds were, warm light refracting into miniature suns on the dark glass of his sunglasses. They rounded the final corner, and...

“Oh,” said Aziraphale softly, staring at the four small, deep green stems that waved back at him. The tentaculas. _Their_  tentaculas. He hadn’t realised, somehow, how small they’d be— the pants felt suddenly _alive_ , in a way they hadn’t before, had never for Aziraphale. He glanced over at Crowley, who was gazing at the plants with a loose, almost wistful-looking expression on his face, distant and, once again, strangely, surprisingly young. 

“They’ve grown,” said Crowley, voice quiet but brimming with that same jittery energy, now focused and excited. “Even since last night. I think— I think this project is really going to be something really special, angel.” 

The little stems— tentacles— were _moving_ , Aziraphale realised. They were really, properly alive. 

“I’ve never really done this before,” said Aziraphale softly. “Grow plants. I mean, I’ve done potting and planting and stuff in Herbology before, of course, but I’ve never watched— I didn’t realise it would be quite so—”

Crowley’s smile widened. 

“They’re so alive, aren’t they? More than you’d think. ‘S almost like being a parent.” Crowley flushed. “Only obviously we’re not— you know.”

“Oh, obviously,” agreed Aziraphale, feeling his face go hot for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. “But... I do understand what you’re trying to say, I think. Thank you for showing me.”

Crowley looked at him— really properly _looked_ , his gaze burning through the weight of his glasses, and smiled wide. Aziraphale smiled back. They stood like that for a moment, in companionable silence, until Aziraphale realised that lunch had really probably started by now.

“Lunch!” He blurted out, causing Crowley’s eyebrows to furrow slightly in confusion. “I mean— that is to say— do we have to feed them? They’ll be onto live Chizpurfles now, won’t they?” 

Crowley pushed back his hair and looked slightly sick. 

“I suppose so. I was trying not to think about it too much, really. It’s always a bit icky. And I always feel sort of bad for the chizpurfles.”

Chizpurfles being small and leggy and seemingly utterly unintelligent, Aziraphale didn’t quite understand this viewpoint. 

“But you don’t mind putting the powder on, do you?” he pointed out pragmatically. “Where do you think that comes from?”

“Yeah, but with the live ones, it feels different, you know?” Crowley protested. “It’s like, I’ll eat meat, but I wouldn’t go out and strangle a chicken. It’s different when you have to do it yourself. And I know that’s hypocritical, but...” Crowley shrugged, and Aziraphale felt a corner of his mouth twitch. Contradictions, indeed. He rolled up his sleeves. 

“Well, luckily I’m not quite as fussy. Where are those chizpurfles kept, then?” 

Crowley dramatically threw one hand to his forehead.

“My knight in shining armour, here to rescue me. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll swoon into your arms.”

An expression of mild alarm crept over Aziraphale’s face. 

“Oh, please don’t. I’d probably drop you.”

Crowley laughed at that, high and clear, and the sound drifted up to the high, fogged-up glass ceiling of the greenhouse as Aziraphale located the chizpurfles and got to work. Crowley stood just behind him, purposefully keeping his gaze averted from the small, crab-like creatures as they met their ends in the grips of the remarkably enthusiastic tentaculas to a series of small crunching noises, instead letting his gaze drift from Aziraphale to the plants and back again, a small smile playing across his face the entire time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally the christmas holidays!! its been a 15 week long term and im so fucking tired
> 
> thanks so much for reading and for all your lovely comments and kudos!! i think this is now officially the longest thing i've ever written, which is... wild. thanks so much for sticking around :)


	19. Chapter 19

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had thus far bothered to show up to lunch, and Anathema was _pissy_. She twiddled absentmindedly with her fork, and did her best not to make direct eye contact with Newt, wishing for a moment that she had Crowley’s sunglasses to help shield her. 

The last time Anathema had spoken to Newt, he’d taken it upon himself to ask her out, with a remarkably self-conscious sort of sincerity. It could have been quite endearing, in a kicked-puppy sort of way, she supposed, to the right sort of girl, only Anathema, as she’d had to explain, the words still feeling new and strange in her mouth, as though they ought to belong to someone else, really wasn’t the right sort of girl _at all_. The whole situation had required a rather large amount of tact, which Anathema would readily admit she didn’t really have, and then the next day they’d all been plunged into the whole miserable Crowley-and-Umbridge situation. 

All of that sort of tended to make conversation rather stilted. Anathema risked a quick glance upwards underneath her eyelashes, and saw that Newt looked just as miserable and awkward as she felt, only with a larger quantity of toast shoved inside his mouth. _Oh, fuck this_ , Anathema thought irritably. In addition to tact, patience was another thing she didn’t have a great deal of.  She wasn’t going to spend all of lunch in silence, and if Crowley and Aziraphale couldn’t be bothered to show up, then she’d just have to make her own conversation, wouldn’t she? Anathema sighed heavily. 

A lot of people, she was vaguely aware, didn’t like her. She had a personality that could be described as _bossy_ , she supposed, or _condescending_ , or even just _bitchy_ , if one was feeling particularly eloquent. A lot of this was just fine with her— Anathema had a few good, close friends, and a wider circle of acquaintances, who she could strike up a conversation with with fairly little effort, or who she could work with in class. And then there was Aziraphale, who was in a class of his own at this stage, more like family than anything else. And so if the rest of the world didn’t like her, Anathema didn’t particularly give a damn. But the small group of people that she cared about... Anathema worried about what they thought of her,  perhaps more than she cared to admit. Crowley was definitely included in that group now, and Anathema still got an odd, twitchy feeling in her stomach now whenever she looked at him, convinced that she’d handled the whole situation terribly, that Crowley would never really trust her, like her again. There was a small part of Anathema that thought that maybe she should have just kept her mouth shut, never brought the topic up in the first place, but that small part, she had decided, was an idiot. And selfish, too. All of this would still be happening if she hadn’t said anything, they just wouldn’t know anything about it, and Crowley would be left to struggle through on his own. _He still is_ , piped up that little voice. _Because you haven’t actually done jack shit to help him, have you?_

Anathema pushed the thought away, and stared back at Newt. Like it or not, he had somehow also wormed his way onto Anathema’s little list of people whose opinions she actually cared about, and she felt sort of... bad about the way she’d treated him. 

Not that she wanted to date him, of course. 

_Still very much a lesbian, thank you very much._ But even so, she could be... nicer to him? Maybe? Or apologise, or something. Anathema sighed, and looked up at Newt. 

“God. What do you reckon those two are up to, then?”

Newt shrugged, but seemed pathetically grateful for the conversation. This did not make Anathema feel particularly better about herself.

“I dunno,” he said slowly, around his latest mouthful of toast. “If it was just Crowley, I’d reckon he was probably just still asleep, but since it’s both of them…”

Anathema inclined her head thoughtfully, although the mention of Crowley caused an uncomfortable twinge in her gut.

“Did he— did he get back very late last night, then?”

Newt nodded.

“Yeah, I was already asleep by the time he’d have come in, didn’t notice a thing.” Newt took a swig of pumpkin juice, but perhaps noticing Anathema’s expression, he quickly added “I mean, I reckon he’d probably lie in all day if he thought he could get away with it, anyway. Genuinely. He sleeps a ridiculous amount.”

Anathema made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat.

“Mmm. But, like you said, since Aziraphale’s not here either…”

Newt grimaced slightly.

“Reckon they’ve gone off somewhere together? They’re getting on awfully well.”

Anathema delicately raised an eyebrow.

“Feeling jealous, are we?

“Well, are _you_?” Newt shot back. Anathema took a long drink from her own goblet and contemplated this for a second.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I don’t _think_ so. I genuinely like Crowley, and obviously I’m glad he and Aziraphale are hitting it off, and I know I can still talk to Az when I want, but…”

Newt gave a wry smile.

“But it’s still sort of a weird feeling, isn’t it? Everything changing?”

Anathema smiled back.

“Well, I suppose the two of us will just have to band together, then.” Anathema stared at Newt for a moment, and then continued on impulse.

“Look, Newt, I’m really sorry if I hurt your feelings or anything the other night— you know— when you— well. You do know it’s not a reflection on you at all, right? It’s just me.”

Newt went red.

“Can we just sort of collectively agree to forget that? I made a right arse of myself, and we both know it.”

“You didn’t!” Anathema protested. “It was...sweet. Sort of. Well, the bits I could understand in between all the blushing and the stammering and the general awkwardness, anyway.” She tried to suppress a smile, and Newt noticed and groaned, and then suddenly they were both laughing, and Anathema knew that she and Newton Pulsifer were going to be real, proper friends.

 

Crowley and Aziraphale _finally_ showed up towards the end of lunch, together, as predicted. They were chatting animatedly together, and there was a strange, light expression on Aziraphale’s face as he watched Crowley explain something with animated hand gestures that Anathema had never seen before, and she didn’t know if she ought to be happy or sad about it. Perhaps a bit of both, she decided. She wasn’t _losing_ Aziraphale. She was gaining things, even, gaining Newt and Crowley and all their ridiculousness. And it wasn’t like Crowley had forced his way into Aziraphale’s life. This had just sort of happened, quite naturally. But even so… things were changing. They were all changing, Anathema thought, growing older, and she felt the bizarre urge to try and stop it somehow, the moments trickling between her fingers. There were only two years left at Hogwarts, after this one. After this year, she’d probably drop certain subjects, never do them again, never listen to the absolutely beautifully stupid comments some of her classmates made on a daily basis, and— it made Anathema sad, somehow. That it was all going, already. And so if she watched Aziraphale with a slightly hawkish gaze, if she reckoned she’d go up to the Ravenclaw dorms that night and have another look at The Book and hopefully another chat with Aziraphale, was that so selfish of her? Anathema shook her head ever so slightly, trying to dislodge her thoughts, and smiled up at Crowley and Aziraphale as they sat down.

“And what time do you call this?” She asked, adding a note of friendly irritation into her voice. Both boys flushed.

“I’m just as upset about this as you are,” said Crowley plaintively, “I slept through breakfast, I’m _starving_ …” He reached forward, grabbed some toast.

Aziraphale sniffed derisively.

“Well, we’d probably have gotten here a lot sooner if you’d actually _helped_ with the Chizpurfles, you know, rather than just hovering over my shoulder like some sort of lost Disney princess.”

Crowley huffed.

“Oh come on, you positively loved my dithering, and you know it. Bet I made you feel very rugged and masculine,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“I know no such thing,” said Aziraphale primly, cutting his toast into neat little squares. “I only know that _you_ are perfectly ridiculous.”

“You two still haven’t actually explained where you’ve been, you know,” Newt butted in helpfully, and Aziraphale’s face lit up in a terribly familiar way that Anathema, at any rate, found rather endearing, the face that meant he was about to go off on a long and impassioned rant about something, usually one of his books.

“Oh— our tentaculas have sprouted! You know, our plants for the Herbology project. Crowley was showing me,” said Aziraphale, with a smile over in the Hufflepuff’s direction. “And they need live Chizpurfles now, and so feeding them is terribly fussy, especially because they’re still so young, and they don’t really know what they’re doing, any more than we do. And _this_ one—“ he jerked his head once more in Crowley’s direction— “was no help at all. Squeamish. And I’m afraid we rather lost track of time.”

Crowley muttered something vaguely defensive, reaching for the butter as he did so, but didn’t seem overly upset. Anathema decided to take this as a good sign.

“How was— Umbridge?” She was loath to say detention, because that made it sound like it was some normal school thing, like this was in any way _normal_ , or acceptable, or worse, that it was Crowley’s fault somehow, punishment for something. Which was stupid. And fucked-up. Crowley went rather still at this, shoulders tensing, which Anathema should probably have figured was going to happen, but she couldn’t just drop the subject now, could she?

Crowley turned to face Aziraphale.

“How long did you say I had to think about this whole thing again?”

“A week,” Aziraphale said, not sounding particularly happy about it. “But, Crowley—”

“A week. Right,” said Crowley, ruthlessly plowing on. “So until that week is over, can you all please just— drop it?”

Anathema furrowed her brow slightly.

“I’m _trying_ , Crowley, I honestly am, I just… I’m worried. And so are these two,” she added, jerking her thumbs at Newt and Aziraphale, trying to lighten her tone slightly, to stop from falling into the same argument, “even if they’re two busy being all rugged and masculine or whatever to admit it.”

Crowley fiddled with his sunglasses for a moment, like he was trying to formulate a response. Anathema picked listlessly at the ends of her hair. _Here we go_ , she thought. _He’s going to be all upset, and close off, and I’ll have made things worse, and it’ll all be my fault again._

But Crowley just sighed.

“It’s— last night was my last detention, as long as I behave and all that. So it’s over, in a way.”

Anathema stared at him, torn between happiness and concern.

“But— that doesn’t erase _anything_ Umbridge did, you know— please don’t just—“ she forced out, words shrill and stumbling over one another, and Crowley shot her a slightly manic smile, and, after a cursory glance around the great hall to see if anyone was sitting too near— they weren’t, it was nearly the end of lunch, most people had left— he yanked up the sleeve of his left arm.

_I must respect my elders._

Anathema let out a hissing breath.

She’d seen it before, of course, when she’d used her wand to flick up his sleeve that first day— something else that she still felt bad about, lovely— but that had been before another full evening of— of— _torture_ , or however one wanted to phrase it, and in dim light, and now… it looked so much worse, red and raw, the words sunk deep into Crowley’s skin, spidering down the back of his hand, in messy handwriting that must have been his own, and there was something about the hardness in Crowley’s expression as he offered this up for them all to gawk at, his refusal to express even an iota of emotion, of weakness, that made something in Anathema’s chest crack slightly. And— and looking over at Aziraphale, Anathema felt even worse, seeing the horror written over the Ravenclaw’s face, something that— that wasn’t pity, exactly, she didn’t think, but the desire to swoop down and somehow make everything be all right again, coupled with utter helplessness as he realised that he didn’t know how to do that, that none of them did. _We’re all so helpless and hopeless and stupid_ , Anathema thought vaguely. _None of us knows what we’re doing, not really, but we’d all rather die than admit it. Aren’t these supposed to be the best years of our lives, or something?_

With his non-injured hand, Crowley fished around his bag, dug out a long, slim wand, made of some oddly dark wood that Anathema couldn’t quite place.

“Doesn’t erase what she’s done…” Crowley echoed, voice and face oddly distant. “Well.” He looked over at Aziraphale. “I’m taking your week. Really I am. I’ll… I’ll think it over, telling someone, but that’s really all I can promise. Sorry. But…” he shifted his gaze to Anathema, oddly piercing despite or perhaps because of the heavy weight of his dark sunglasses, and Anathema was oddly reminded of a story she’d read once as a child, about a man who’d had to wear a blindfold, because his full gaze was so strong it could shatter  _mountains._ “I can’t— I can’t be a— poster boy for this. I can’t be the perfect sobbing victim, I can’t just go and beg for someone else to fix this for me, I— I just _can’t_.” Crowley splayed his hands out on the table, ducked his head down. “I don’t really know how to put it into words any better than that.”

Crowley picked up his wand again, with his right hand, the angle still uncomfortable in its newness, his grip poised and tight.

“ _Episkey_ ,” he said, and Anathema watched, fascinated despite herself, as the skin began to slowly draw itself back together, the angry redness fading into faint silver, until the words were— not gone, not quite, but much further along the healing process.

The four of them sat there, in a silence that felt oddly fragile, but Anathema wasn’t sure if they would shatter it, or it would shatter them. When the bell went to signal the end of lunch, she almost flinched. Crowley let his lips curve slightly downwards.

“Didn’t even get to eat my bloody toast,” he muttered, and then, on impulse, grabbed the remaining stack from the centre of the table and shoved it into his bag before all the food left on the plates was vanished away. He met Aziraphale’s pointedly enquiring stare with a lopsided grin.

“Oh, come _on_ , angel, I’m _hungry_ , and besides, it’d only get thrown out otherwise anyway. So I’m positively an environmental warrior.” His tone was bright and jokey, and he tugged his sleeve back down, as though nothing had ever happened. There was a little furrow of concern between Aziraphale’s eyebrows, and he caught Anathema’s stare with an answering look as if to say, _you’re not buying this either, are you?_

Then he looked over at Crowley, smiled faintly.

“Well, _really_ , I strongly doubt even Newt would be hungry enough for— however many pieces of toast that was.”

Crowley’s face lit up.

“We could do one of those guessing games— you know, when you try and figure out how many marbles are in a jar, or whatever. Winner gets— well, some toast, probably.”

Anathema shook her head, but let herself be dragged along by the sheer amusing absurdity of it all, at least for the moment, as the four of them traipsed out of the great hall, and into the cool autumn sun, the wind teasing at her hair, her skin, as though it was trying to tell her that it knew something she didn’t.

Anathema wished it would speak up, because at the moment, she didn’t know much of _anything_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more of an Anathema-POV chapter this time, let me know what you think!!
> 
> We've passed 40k words now, which- what the fuck. where are they all coming from. 
> 
> Happy holidays, and thanks for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

 

Crowley was honestly almost impressed with the extent of his procrastinating abilities. The week Aziraphale had given him to decide what to do about the whole Umbridge situation was drawing to a close, and in addition to a monstrous pile of homework he was scared to even _look_ at, he’d somehow managed to completely avoid even thinking about the whole Umbridge situation. And now it was Friday, and he had Herbology after lunch, and Aziraphale was definitely going to bring it up, because that was just the sort of person that Aziraphale was, and Crowley had no idea what the fuck he was going to say.

Schoolwork had always been all right for Crowley. He could get by on most tests on wits and whatever he could remember from hasty notes he’d made the night before, and was always happy enough with his grades. He was no Aziraphale, would never get 100% on everything, and he was, on the whole, all right with this.

But fucking _hell_ , his O.W.L.s.

It’d only been a week, and already teachers were piling down hitherto unknown amounts of homework and revision materials, prescribing timetables and past papers and all sorts of other things Crowley had absolutely no desire to do. He’d always sort of worked on the basis that homework didn’t have to be particularly good, it just had to be _done_. This outlook was apparently no longer acceptable. He’d gotten his rushed potions essay back with a P and a death glare from Snape, and a strong reminder from Professor McGonagall in transfiguration the other day that every bit of work counted now, because everything they covered this year was liable to come up on their exams, and it was therefore vital that they paid attention. It was exhausting, and there didn’t seem to be a moment of the day where there wasn’t something or other that Crowley ought to be doing, be it homework, or watering the tentaculas (they’d decided that it was probably best if Aziraphale did the feeding, although Crowley did like to come with him and watch the calm, no-nonsense look on the Ravenclaw’s face), or, you know, just trying to keep up some semblance of a social life.

Between all of that, he really hadn’t had much of a chance to think over the Umbridge situation, and Crowley didn’t care if that sounded like an excuse, it was _true_. And he had no idea how he was meant to get through all of this for an entire year. He just sort of wanted to fizzle out of existence, sometimes. To get some bloody peace and quiet.

Crowley was vaguely aware that this might not be a completely healthy thing to be thinking. He was also vaguely aware that he did not, particularly, care.

What the _fuck_ was he going to say to Aziraphale?

Crowley sat at the back of his muggle studies classroom and tapped his quill against the desk, trying to weigh things up in his head.

He could tell someone. A teacher. Professor Sprout, maybe? And then things would be out of his hands, into the comfortable realm of _somebody else’s problem_ , then he could stop being such a fucking drain on his friends and wipe that terrible look of sort-of disapproval, sort-of pity off Aziraphale’s face. Then he could go back to being normal again. Or normal-ish, anyway. Well. Maybe.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? That eternal maybe, black and heavy. Maybe things would turn out all right. Maybe Umbridge would get in trouble, maybe Crowley could stop her from doing the same thing to other people.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Or maybe things would get worse. Maybe they wouldn’t even believe him— the writing on his arm was faint now, just a shadow. It could have come from anything. Maybe.

And— and Umbridge was still high inquisitor. And he’d heard all sorts of horror stories about her coming in to inspect other teachers’ lessons, although thankfully he’d so far managed to escape that particular horror. So maybe even if he told someone and they believed him— and this was already a fairly large _if_ — they still wouldn’t be able to change a damn thing. And this was all if he could even work up the balls to tell anyone in the first place. Wonderful.

Crowley dragged himself back to the essay he was supposed to be drafting out on the impact of the Hollywood film on modern muggle culture, and sighed. _The so-called golden age of Hollywood began in the 1930s due to a desire for escapism from the Great Depression…_ Crowley sighed again, deeper this time, unable to focus on _anything_ , the mess of his thoughts or the mostly blank parchment that stared up at him accusingly. He could do with some escapism from his own bloody Great Depression. A new James Bond film, for example. Crowley only had the VHS tapes that his mum had had, which he knew wasn’t all of them, and even those were functionally useless, as the Jaegers, of course, didn’t own a television. They considered it a filthy muggle invention, and therefore beneath them. So James Bond had lived on in Crowley’s head, and Crowley could no longer be quite certain what had happened in the films, and what bits he’d made up in his head later, if the films had even been that good, or if he’d sort of embellished them in his head, whiting out all the bits he hadn’t liked.

Crowley went back to tapping the quill on the desk, needing to get all of this fidgety energy out somehow.

To tell or not to tell? It was a fifty-fifty thing. Maybe he should just flip a coin.

Or maybe he should not do that.

The bell rang to signal the end of Muggle Studies, and Crowley morosely gathered up his things. No work done, and no real answer to the Umbridge question yet either. Bugger.

Professor Burbage gave Crowley a small, slightly concerned smile on the way out. Crowley quite liked the Professor— she was smart, and seemed genuinely passionate about trying to further wizarding understanding and acceptance of muggles. She was also relatively lax about homework arriving a day or two late.

“You seemed a bit… absent in class today, Mr Crowley. I missed your contributions, they’re normally so insightful…is everything all right?”

There was a moment, just a moment, where Crowley considered telling her. Get it all out, there and then.

But he— couldn’t. He froze up, and despite the chorus of voices screeching in his head, he just sort of wanly smiled back.

“Sorry, Professor. Just tired. I’ll get the essay sorted, though. I already have some ideas.”

Professor Burbage smiled at him again, a polite sort of dismissal this time, and Crowley made his way out of the classroom as fast as possible.

She’d asked. She’d noticed something was wrong, and literally _asked him_ about it. What more of a fucking window had he needed?

If he couldn’t even say that anything was wrong then, how was he supposed to go up to a teacher— any teacher— and start up a conversation about— that? If he just went tense and stammered out some bullshit about not getting enough sleep?

How was he supposed to do this? Crowley wanted to scream.

He didn’t reckon he’d even bother showing up for lunch. He’d just… find somewhere quiet to sit under the guise of getting that muggle studies essay done (which, in all fairness, he should probably actually do at some point) and think this through. Figure out what the bloody fuck he was going to do.

And if he was honest… he’d rather have this conversation, when it inevitably came up, with just Aziraphale, against the soothing backdrop of the Herbology greenhouses, rather than with all three of them staring down at him like he was some kind of mental patient. He liked Newt and Anathema, obviously. They were, in their own messy way, all friends now, he supposed. But.

But he might sort of like Aziraphale more.

Crowley felt sort of awkward about that, especially in the case of Newt, who he’d known for five years. Newt was funny, and disarmingly genuine, and Crowley really, truly liked him. Newt was a brilliant mate to have a laugh with, but— but Crowley didn’t talk to him about things like this. Didn’t know how, and did not particularly want to. And Anathema, in between when she was inadvertently giving him a mental breakdown (which he knew she felt bad about and which he in turn felt bad about making her feel bad about, which she’d probably picked up on as well in a never ending cycle of misery and _why was this his fucking life_ ), was also a genuinely great person, intelligent and insightful and _driven_. 

But then there was Aziraphale.

And it was almost annoying, because it barely made sense. The two of them had barely anything in common. Aziraphale was— was smart, and cared overwhelmingly about books and was stupidly eloquent and had a really nice accent and sort of made Crowley feel like an idiot every time he opened his mouth, only not in a condescending sort of way (well, most of the time, anyway. The Ravenclaw, he was finding could be incredibly uppity about certain things), in an oddly nice sort of way, in a _why did I never think of this because it makes such perfect sense when you say it_ kind of way.

He liked it when they talked. He liked the conversations they had, the mixture of awkwardness and fidgety anxiety that somehow always managed to lead to them saying maybe more than either of them had intended. Aziraphale was shockingly easy to talk to, somehow. And if half the stuff that Crowley came out with was complete and utter bullshit, the other boy at least seemed to semi-tolerate it.  

He— had barely known Aziraphale for a fortnight. But he didn’t know. Maybe that made it easier, somehow. Because there wasn’t too much expectation, yet. Maybe all the differences between them helped, too. Because he could still sort of choose who he wanted to be around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale wanted him to tell someone. And he was probably right. But Crowley didn’t know if he _could_.

He’d just have to wait and see what came out of his mouth, he supposed. Crowley sighed. Lunch was almost over, and he could feel the seconds physically pressing down on him. It wasn’t just the old fears of what might happen, the fear of making himself still more vulnerable, it was— he physically did not know if he could get the words out of his mouth.

He hated this. He hated that he knew exactly why he was like this, more to the point, who had made him like this. He resented the fact that every time he pulled down his sleeve or fixed himself up or plastered on a fake smile or froze up or pushed down what was happening, he was just proving all of them right, Hastur and Ligur and his uncle and, fuck it, Umbridge. He was letting them get away with it.

And he hated himself for it, a dark slick of shame branded onto his very being.

He should really tell someone.

He _couldn’t_.

But— but Aziraphale could. Nice, normal, non-fucked up Aziraphale, even if his parents did also sound like tossers, even if the Ravenclaw did have a tendency to put himself under a positively ungodly amount of stress. Aziraphale would have no problem marching up to a teacher and telling them what was going on— he and Anathema, Crowley had bloody well noticed, had been desperate to do so all week.

He’d still have to ask Aziraphale to do that for him. And that… would be difficult. And require Crowley placing an awful lot of trust in a boy he’d barely known two weeks. And he’d have to wait around while Aziraphale did the talking, and it would be unbelievably awkward, and whatever teacher this ended up being, they would still want to speak to him eventually, Crowley knew that. But it would get the ball rolling, he supposed. And...and asking Aziraphale felt smaller, safer, than talking— _confessing_ , almost, it felt like— to a teacher.

Crowley felt a flicker of something small and treacherously hopeful in the pit of his stomach.

Okay. He was going to do this. Okay.

It wasn’t anything major, he knew. It was nowhere near fixing all of his problems. But it was most definitely a start.

A thin sort of smile played around Crowley’s lips, and he shouldered his bag and made his way to Herbology.

 

Aziraphale was already there when Crowley showed up, looking distinctly panicky, a hard set to his dark eyes that softened slightly when he caught sight of the haggard-looking Hufflepuff.

“You weren’t at lunch,” said Aziraphale, tone mildly accusatory, but with a distinct hint of worry to it. “I thought— it’s been a week now, hasn’t it? Since…”

Crowley let out a long, hissing breath, and shot a quick look at the tentaculas in a desperate attempt to give his thoughts a chance to sort themselves out. They’d grown again since he’d watered them last night, had, in fact, been growing at a positively ridiculous pace all week, no thanks to his skills with the chizpurfles.

“Yes. Well. I went to the library instead, I had an essay to do for muggle studies, and I wanted to— figure some things out.”

Aziraphale blinked slowly.

“Ah,” he said, slowly, finally. “And did you?”

Here went nothing. Crowley took a deep breath.

“Right. Well. Look, angel, I was sort of thinking— I mean—”

And then Umbridge walked into the greenhouse, the searing pink of her robes jarring against the cool green of the plants.

_This is it_ , Crowley thought distantly. _I’ve finally completely lost my fucking mind. And not a moment too soon_. He could feel his body tensing up, the back of his hand prickling reflexively. He shot a mildly panicked look over at Aziraphale, only to find the Ravenclaw was also staring at Umbridge with fixed distaste.

“What on Earth,” said Aziraphale, who had, in fact, noticed Crowley’s reaction to Umbridge walking in and had been quite upset by it, the way Crowley had instantly tried to make himself smaller, less threatening, “is— is that— woman doing here?”

So I’m not totally insane, then, thought Crowley. This was not, perhaps, as much of a relief as it should have been, as Umbridge’s mud-brown eyes seemed to lock on his through his sunglasses, and she gave him a cheery smile before striding over to Professor Sprout with a simpering sort of confidence. The Herbology teacher, to her credit, seemed utterly unruffled by Umbridge’s arrival, simply escorting her over to a corner of the greenhouse and talking to her with a serene expression on her lined face as all the fifth years soldiered on with their respective plants and projects. Crowley ducked down behind the tentaculas in order to keep watching, and Aziraphale joined him, realisation slowly beginning to dawn on his pudgy face.

“This must be one of those inspection things she’s doing, you know, as high inquisitor or whatever it is that she’s calling herself now,” he said in a low voice, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Crowley, who gave a non-committal ‘mmph’ noise and kept his eyes fixed on Umbridge, face taunt with tension.

Sensing that his friend was going to stay quiet, Aziraphale soldiered on.

“Look, Crowley,” Aziraphale began empathetically, “Umbridge is— is a terrible, horrible person. And a worse teacher. And she categorically should not be allowed anywhere near a school. But—“ he paused for a moment to shoot a worried glance at Crowley, who still looked fairly miserable, but at least the faint ghost of a smile seemed to be playing round his face. Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, look can we have this conversation standing up instead of lurking behind the tentaculas? They do still need food and water, after all, and this is really rather uncomfortable.” This earned him a small but nevertheless genuine smile, and Crowley awkwardly straightened up.

“Yeah. S’pose so. Sorry.”

Aziraphale stood up as well, wiping down his robes as he did so, and casting Umbridge one last, resentful look as he did so.

“I, ah, realise that this is utterly terrible timing. But— what you were saying earlier— I mean— look, would you be— comfortable with telling anyone?”

Crowley did his level best to wrench his gaze away from Umbridge, to focus on Aziraphale instead, the surprising warmth in those dark eyes, the way his curls framed his face, the sudden, not entirely unwelcome nearness of him. But he could almost _feel_ her there, a heavy, itching presence at the back of his skull, a grating voice telling him how utterly worthless he was, how useless all this was, him coming up with his stupid little loopholes, how he wasn’t going to change a damn thing.

Why was she _here_? He’d been about to say it, to ask, for once in his life, for help, and then Umbridge had shown up, and now— and now—

_And now you have the perfect excuse not to, don’t you?_ A distinctly unpleasant voice purred in the back of his skull. _You were never going to say anything in the first place. You were just waiting for a reason, any reason, to get out of it._

_Coward._

Crowley swallowed nervously, redirected his gaze at the floor. He felt slightly sick.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted after a while, and the Hufflepuff suddenly realised that he hadn’t actually answered yet. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Let out a shuddering breath.

“I can’t do this,” he said, finally, quietly. “I thought I could, but I— can’t. So can we please just— forget any of this ever happened?”

“Oh— _Crowley_ —“ began Aziraphale again, something terribly pitying and desperate and yes, slightly scared in his tone. Crowley shook his head slightly and cut him off.

“Could you please just— _not_?”

Aziraphale looked slightly hurt, and very upset, but he nodded slowly.

They spent the rest of the lesson tending to the tentaculas in dead silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019!! 2018 was shit but that's done now so i'm looking forward to a brand new year filled with GCSEs and brexit.  
> Thank you so much for reading and for all the absolutely incredible comments and kudos, it really means a lot <3


	21. Chapter 21

Aziraphale was worried about Crowley. After two weeks, this was already not an unusual feeling, and this in itself also worried Aziraphale, both the fact that there was so much to worry about and the fact that he still hadn’t the foggiest clue how to resolve it, and— and the fact that he was worried at all. The fact that he cared enough to worry.

He really did like Crowley. It was… strange, but he was _aware_ of the Hufflepuff in a way that he wasn’t of Anathema. The world around Crowley seemed to be in slightly higher focus, attenuating Aziraphale to every nervous mannerism, the way he always seemed to need to do _something_ with his hands, be it messing with his hair, a dark wave that swept back over his forehead with a relaxed sort of ease that Aziraphale’s could never even _hope_ to replicate, or readjusting those sunglasses, or simply picking at his fingernails, as though he was scared of what might happen if he was still, even for a moment.

And then when Umbridge had walked in, and Crowley had gone so terribly statue-stiff, unmoving, the way he’d almost seemed to crumple in on himself… well. It made Aziraphale furious, at Umbridge, at society, and especially at himself, for still not having the faintest clue of what he was supposed to do in this situation, for having the arrogance to think that he _could_ do anything, for setting that week’s extension mostly for himself, and then still not being able to do a damn thing about it, other than just _watch_ Crowley, let him fill up his vision with a cloud of long brown limbs and movement, and do nothing, and all the while a faint staticky sort of panic was building up in the back of his mind.

Bugger.

Aziraphale ran his hands through his messy spill of curls, trying to clear his mind and focus on his charms essay, which he was certain he was overcomplicating somehow, sighed, and peered over at Crowley, who was glaring down at his muggle studies essay with what looked like an equal amount of frustration. The sunglasses were rather starting to grow on Aziraphale, because the fact that he couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes meant that he had to read his expressions from every other aspect of his face, the sardonic arch of an eyebrow, the faint twitch of a lip. It was a puzzle, but one Aziraphale rather enjoyed.

But then, every part of Crowley was rather starting to grow on Aziraphale, and this in itself was also a problem.

They’d managed to reach an awkward sort of truce after that disastrous Herbology lesson, as long as Aziraphale did his level best not to mention the whole Umbridge debacle, and all their conversations stayed on strictly light-hearted, airy topics. This was less than ideal, because for one, Aziraphale sort of enjoyed the way his and Crowley’s conversations had a tendency to go off on wild, oddly personal tangents, although he did still feel sort of— awkward— about dumping his entire childhood on Crowley, especially as everything about Crowley’s sounded so much worse. He’d seen Crowley’s cousins skulking around the halls a few times now, huge, hulking figures that Aziraphale instinctively disliked. He couldn’t imagine living with them.

The thread of a thought dangled in front of Aziraphale for a moment, but slipped away before he could grasp it.

_His mother is dead. Mine would like me to do well at school. Not quite the same, is it?_

Not that that stopped him worrying about it, of course, obsessing over every piece of homework, every hint of information that could be on their exams. Knowing that something you were worried about was stupid did not, in fact, actually stop you from worrying about said thing at all, and this bothered Aziraphale immensely.

He was cut out of his reverie, eventually, by Crowley, who sighed rather theatrically, and then tilted his head to one side, sunglasses glinting inquisitively at Aziraphale.

“Do you believe in God, angel?” he asked slowly, carefully, twiddling idly with a pencil as he did so. Aziraphale looked at him, slightly confused. This made an unexpected change from the forcibly jokey Crowley he’d reluctantly begun to grow accustomed to.

“Is this for Muggle Studies?” Aziraphale asked, not entirely sure how he was supposed to feel about this topic of conversation. Religion was always a rather dicey subject, after all. “But yes. I suppose I do.”

Crowley nodded slowly and let his pencil clatter to the desk.

“How can you,” he said slowly, weighing out the words, “in this mess of a world? I mean— how can you believe that anyone actually gives a _shit_ about us?”

Aziraphale blinked. He wasn’t offended, as such, but all the same religion was and had always been such a fixed part of his life that it was odd hearing it discussed in such disparaging terms. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and God was, in all likelihood, probably Up There, and if he was ruining his life, then at least he was ruining it according to Plan.

“In a world like this,” he finally responded, “I think— we— humanity— _need_ to believe in— in some sort of higher power. In a _purpose._ How can you get by if you don’t believe that ultimately, someone does care? That it’s all for a reason?”

Crowley let out a long, drawn out breath.

“ _Am_ I getting by? I hadn’t noticed. But… what sort of grand bloody plan d’you reckon justifies all of this, then? The poverty and the death and the suffering?”

Aziraphale stared at him, beginning to enjoy this now, feeling the shape of an argument beginning to take shape.

“Well, I don’t know. That’s rather the point, I suppose. But if there is no point, no reason, then it’s all still happening, isn’t it? It doesn’t change a thing. So you can choose to _hope,_ or you can choose to assume that it’s all pointless and miserable.”

Crowley grinned back.

“Ah, but if it’s all predetermined anyway, who says I’m not _supposed_ to be pointless and miserable? Why should I even bother getting out of bed in the morning, because if I just lie there, if that’s what happens, then that’s God’s plan, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale tutted wisely.

“You’re forgetting, I think, about free will.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“But, see, you can’t both have free will _and_ be part of some cosmic chess game. They contradict one another. If every choice you make is feeding into a prewritten story, then you’re not really making a choice, are you?”

Aziraphale frowned.

“Well—“

Crowley grinned, and waggled a finger.

“ _And_ ,” he added, sounding stupidly pleased with himself, “ _and_ , the real problem with this whole plan business is that you look at, I dunno, some starving kids right, and you think, ‘that’s all part of the plan, as you were, that’s what the big man upstairs wants’, instead of actually _helping_ said children.”

“Well yes, but by the same logic, the plan could be for you to help those children, especially if one looks at the whole message of the bible about loving one’s neighbour and— and trying to make the world a better place and— oh, look, Crowley, is there a point to all of this?”

Crowley looked slightly confused.

“To what? Our existence in general, or this specific conversation?”

Aziraphale shot him a sharp look.

“I just mean— you’ve barely said a word to me ever since— the whole Umbridge thing— and when you have it’s all been this desperately cheery nonsense, and then suddenly you want to have this passionate debate about _religion_ , of all things, and it was certainly enjoyable, only— well— _why_?”

Crowley picked at his fingernails.

“Do I need a motive? Can I not just want to talk to my friend?”

Aziraphale tried to ignore the small, fluttery feeling that this sent thrumming through his chest, and gave Crowley an appraising look.

“ _Are_ we friends, then?”

“I— course we’re friends, angel!” said Crowley, his cheeks going slightly red. “Or— I’d like us to be, anyway. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“Well, so did I,” said Aziraphale plaintively, “only, you keep— well, whenever Umbridge comes up, or—or anything, you sort of—close off. And I feel like I’m doing everything wrong— and I can’t even figure out if you _like_ me half the time, or if I’m just this terrible— intrusion, and I really haven’t the foggiest clue of what I’m doing, and—“

“You’re not,” Crowley broke in, “an intrusion. At all. And—and you’re not doing anything wrong, honestly. This— thing— with Umbridge— well, it’s all a mess, really, but you and Anathema and Newt, you’re all being absolutely brilliant about it, and I’m sorry I’m too much of a useless mess to tell a teacher or anything, but I’m— working on it.” He trailed off for a second, and Aziraphale was about to say something, when Crowley quickly added, blushing bright red as he did so, “and I do,“in a quick, slightly strained tone of voice, the words tripping over one another, patently awkward in their sincerity, “Like you, I mean. Quite a lot, actually.”

Aziraphale could feel his own cheeks going hot to match Crowley’s.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Well, thank you, I suppose. And— and you’re not useless in the slightest. This whole situation is—“

“Fucked up,” Crowley offered helpfully, and Aziraphale winced slightly. There _were_ other people in the library, after all.

“I was going to say _complicated_ , but the sentiment still applies. And I honestly don’t want to pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do, I just— I want to magically resolve the whole situation, and I can’t, and—“ _and now I’ve gone and made it all about myself again_ , Aziraphale thought bitterly. _Excellent._

But he was cut off by Crowley’s smile, bright and warm and somehow slightly soft around the edges, and achingly genuine.

“I’d quite like to hug you again,” Crowley said, and there was an odd little tremor to his voice, “only there’s sort of a desk in the way.” He immediately looked mortified about this, and Aziraphale gave him a— he hoped—reassuring smile.

“Well. The tentaculas will need watering soon, I suppose. And food. And there’s no desks in the greenhouses.”

“No desks in the greenhouses…” Crowley echoed, a half-smile beginning to slide back over the sharp angles of his face. “Well. Whatever _are_ we waiting for, then?”

 

The greenhouse had been lovely. And the tentaculas has been in excellent condition, and had somehow grown _again_ since the last time Aziraphale had seen them, a veritable maze of swirling deepest green and delicately pointed spikes. And Crowley had been lovely, slightly awkward and self-conscious as usual, but in a better mood than Aziraphale had seen him for a while. And the hug had been lovely as well, the smooth way that Crowley’s body seemed to fit around his, the sudden, tangible _realness_ of him, the press of skin on skin. And for no reason at all, he felt oddly guilty about this, as Anathema let herself flop backwards into Aziraphale’s bed with a wicked grin on her face.

“You really like him, don’t you?”

Aziraphale could feel his face growing hot. Again. This was becoming somewhat of a regular occurrence where the subject of Crowley was concerned.

“I like him a perfectly normal amount,” he replied primly, and then sighed and sat down next to her. “Well. I think so, anyway. I’m certainly no expert on the subject.” He peered over at Anathema with sudden concern and a slight resurgence of that same strange guilt. “Oh— I mean— you don’t think I’m neglecting you or anything, do you?”

Anathema’s dark eyebrows shot up rather dramatically.

“I’m not a stray dog, you know. I _can_ , albeit with extreme difficulty, survive without your divine presence.” She sighed. “No, but in all seriousness, while I obviously enjoy spending time with you, I’m… happy for you. Really. And I’m getting to spend more time with Newt, which is also good fun. So, you know, feel free to run off with your knight in shining sunglasses whenever.”

Aziraphale ran a hand through his mess of curls, which did absolutely nothing to sort them out but was oddly soothing anyway.

“He’s not _my_ anything. We’re just friends, as well you know.”

Anathema gave him a slightly odd look at that, but didn’t press the subject, much to Aziraphale’s relief.

“Did he say anything else on the whole Umbridge thing?” she asked, after a moment’s relaxed silence.

Aziraphale shook his head.

“It’s— when we were in the greenhouses, I really thought he was going to say something— he looked as though he was preparing himself, and everything, and then, well…” Aziraphale gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “As soon as Umbridge walked in— he almost— _froze_. Like a deer in headlights. And— I’m worried. And frustrated. And…”

Anathema nodded sympathetically.

“It’s all a bloody mess, isn’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” nodded Aziraphale. “The whole _point_ of this stupid week was to come up with some magical solution, or— or for Crowley to decide he wanted to tell someone, or _something_ , but obviously none of that’s happened, and— well, he’s out of detention now, so am I supposed to just—drop it?”

Anathema fiddled with the ends of her hair thoughtfully, and frowned slightly.

“I mean we can’t just— pretend like none of this ever happened, can we? And all of his— joking, and deflecting… it worries me, if I’m being honest.” She sighed, and tugged wanly at the duvet. “But— the two of you are getting on really well. And— maybe what Crowley needs, more than telling anyone, is just— someone he can trust. Or maybe it’ll take time. But you’ll be there for him. And so will I. And so will Newt, who is… maybe less of an idiot than I maybe took him for.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“How the mighty have fallen,” he said dryly, and Anathema gave him a playful shove.

“I could say the same of you— you were completely convinced you were going to _hate_ Crowley, remember? I got a whole dramatic speech about it the second I stepped on the bloody train. And now look.”

“I’d almost forgotten about that,” said Aziraphale, surprised and oddly embarrassed when he thought back to his reaction when he’d first read Professor Sprout’s letter. He’d had this whole image of Crowley already built up in his head, arrogant and privileged and snobbish, and it had taken all of five minutes for Crowley to completely change his mind on the matter. And the way he’d hated Crowley for his family… Well. Crowley already seemed to hate his own family enough without Aziraphale’s input, and what was it Crowley had said that first day? Something about your family not defining you, and who was Aziraphale to argue with that?

Well. He would like very much for his family to not define him, not shape him into their perfect mold, only… it was difficult. Because his parents loved him, really they did, and they only wanted the best for him, after all. It was just that their idea of _best_ tended to differ just a tad from Aziraphale’s own. Not that he’d ever tell them that, of course, because he was too much of a miserable coward, because he was too scared of what might happen. Even though he knew, realistically, that the worst that would happen would probably be a disappointed Look from his mother.

But then, worrying about unrealistic things had always been Aziraphale’s speciality.

He sighed, shook his head, and turned back to Anathema, miming holding up a glass to the empty air.

“Well. Here’s to new friends then, I suppose.”

Anathema grinned and raised her own invisible glass.

“And to old ones.”

“To acing our O.W.L.s.”

“To getting me a really sexy girlfriend.”

Aziraphale shot her a pointed look at that, and Anathema laughed and pulled herself upwards, glass vanishing back into nothingness.  

“Well, it’s not as though _you_ want a sexy girlfriend, is it?”

Aziraphale frowned slightly.

“Well, no, not as such…”

Anathema’s grin widened.

“Well, then. Hand over the Book, will you? I need to cross reference prophecies 94 and 63, one of my aunts sent me an owl this morning…”

“So you aren’t just here for the pleasure of my company? I feel deeply shocked and offended.”

“My full and undivided attention, Mr Douglass, is a valuable thing, and you, quite frankly, aren’t worth it.”

“Shocked, I tell you.”

Anathema grinned and let herself sag against the soft curve of the Ravenclaw’s shoulder.

“Ah, you know I love you really.”

Aziraphale shot her a faux-concerned look.

“Not as much as this imaginary sexy girlfriend of yours, I should hope, or she’ll be jealous.”

Anathema snorted.

“Truly, Aziraphale Douglass, you are incorrigible.”

Aziraphale hefted his imaginary glass again.

“To being incorrigible, then. And, fine, to getting you a girlfriend, sexy or otherwise.”

Anathema’s smile was truly something to behold.

“Well, cheers, then.”

“Cheers,” echoed Aziraphale, and as they mimed clinking glasses he felt some of the tight coil of tension in the pit of his stomach unwind, just a little.

Just a little. But it was enough, for a moment, to soothe away Aziraphale’s worries, Umbridge and O.W.L.s and all the rest of it, and to just look at his friend, and smile.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, thanks so much for reading!! you're all wonderful. <3  
> updates might be slightly slower next week as its mock week and i might be a bit busy having a mental breakdown, but i'll be back soon xx


	22. Chapter 22

Anathema stood outside the Ravenclaw dorm room, bit her lip, and scowled. She was on her way to go and see Aziraphale, and, to a lesser extent, the Book. Again. For the second day in a row. Which yes, fine, could potentially come across as slightly clingy of her, but in all fairness it _was_ still the start of the year, when all the Devices were eager to try out all their new interpretations for the book that they’d come up with over the summer. So.

The only problem was, for the first time in ages, she couldn’t get the bloody riddle right.

This was, potentially, because it was a bit of a bullshit question, but this did absolutely nothing to stop Anathema being stuck outside in the uncomfortably cold corridor— well, if it could even be counted as a corridor— it was more of a shitty, drafty little bit of floor at the top of the spiral staircase that led up to the entrance to the Ravenclaw Tower.

Anathema glared at the knocker.

“Can I at least have another go?” The knocker remained infuriatingly silent, and Anathema’s scowl deepened. “Look, this is one of the oldest philosophical questions in the world, yeah? You can’t just expect a neat answer. And for the record, last week you asked me a question on basic transfiguration, so I feel like this is a bit of a leap.”

Still nothing. Anathema let out a low growl of frustration, shook out her hair, and decided that if someone didn’t arrive _quickly_ , she was going to be very annoyed indeed.

If she’d told Aziraphale that she was coming over, then he probably would have come looking for her at some stage, because he was slightly picky about things like punctuality (except when he himself was late, of course), only— she hadn’t. But Aziraphale hadn’t explicitly told her that he was busy, which normally meant that it was fine for her to drop by, and a lot of the time it was perfectly all right for her to drop by even when Aziraphale _had_ said he was busy, because it gave him an excuse to let himself take a break. So Anathema hadn’t felt particularly as though she was imposing earlier, when she’d strode up from the Slytherin dungeons. But now, standing in the as-yet deserted corridor while the evening got progressively later, she was starting to feel just a tad awkward. _Was_ she bothering Aziraphale? She really didn’t mean to, she just… wanted to talk to him sometimes. Just the two of them, like it had always been. Which she did feel sort of bad about, especially as Crowley blatantly needed all the friends he could get at the moment and she really didn’t want to steal Aziraphale from him or anything, it was only—she was slightly scared, she supposed. Of things changing. And so now she was clinging on for dear life, and probably looking like a bloody stalker while she did so, but, well, what else was she supposed to do?

This whole riddle thing was stupid, anyway. Why couldn’t the Ravenclaws just use a bloody password like everyone else? Although, Anathema thought wryly, she was hardly in a position to judge. The Slytherin common room was frustratingly dark when one was trying to study, and the whole dungeon aspect was a) grim, and frankly a little embarrassing— they really had to have the common room designed by the racist nutter stuck in his teenage angst phase, didn’t they— and b) really rather unhygienic— Anathema had had to vanish away the creeping mould that always seeped its way through the cold stone walls several times in the last few weeks alone, and she doubted that some of the boys were nearly as bothered. It must have been fairly terrible for their health, she reckoned. Perhaps they’d be able to sue in a few years, once they’d undoubtably contacted some dreadfully obscure lung disease.

Anathema was jolted out of her thoughts by the echoing sound of footsteps on stone, looked up hopefully as she saw her would-be saviour round the top of the stairs, and blinked.

It was a girl, a Ravenclaw, not in Anathema’s year, she didn’t reckon, but possibly in the one below. Anathema had definitely seen her around the corridors before, because she had the sort of face that caught on your memory—incredibly fair skin, almost ghost-like, with big, thoughtful blue eyes and a cloud of dirty-blonde hair that framed her face and hung down nearly to her waist. Pretty, Anathema thought, but in the way that a china doll was pretty, pale and fragile and slightly eerie. She was also at the moment wearing a necklace that seemed to be made mainly of string, twigs, and what looked like quite a few paper clips, and humming vaguely to herself. Also her wand was perched at a jaunty angle behind her left ear. This was… unusual, Anathema would admit, but as long as she could get Anathema inside the Ravenclaw common room, she really didn’t care.

The girl didn’t seem to have noticed Anathema yet, and she watched in mild bemusement as she continued blithely on her way, swaying slightly as she went and occasionally reaching up to bat invisible things out of the way. Well. Invisible to Anathema, anyway. When you grew up in a family of people obsessed sometimes to a rather unhealthy extent with an old grubby book of prophecies, you learned early on not to judge.

When the girl got within three feet of Anathema, she decided that enough was enough, and cleared her throat loudly, trying to attract her attention.

The girl looked up, slightly startled, and blinked owlishly.

“Oh! Hello!” She said, her voice high and lilting and somehow distant, as though part of her was still in that other world Anathema had just jolted her out of. She gave Anathema a puzzled look. “Do you _want_ to be standing out here, or are you trying to get into the Ravenclaw Tower?”

“The, er, latter,” said Anathema. “Although this _is_ a very nice bit of corridor, of course,” she added wryly.

“Hmmm,” came the vague response, and Anathema felt vaguely awkward for no discernible reason. “Do you know how the knocker works? It asks you a riddle, you know.”

“I know,” said Anathema, slightly defensively. “I may not be in Ravenclaw, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely daft. I just, er, got it wrong this time, that’s all.”

The girl raised an eyebrow, and Anathema felt her face go hot. “Well, it was difficult!” she protested, not quite sure _why_ she felt quite this flustered but suddenly terribly certain that she didn’t want this unknown girl— this unknown girl who was probably in a lower year, for Christ’s sake— to think she was stupid. “It wants a neat answer for a distinctly not-neat concept, and I… well, I rather cocked it up,” Anathema finished frankly, trying to stop herself from being quite so ridiculously defensive.

The girl fiddled thoughtfully with her makeshift necklace, and Anathema could see that upon closer inspection, what she had taken for paperclips were actually little silver bits of twine which had been carefully twisted into what looked, to Anathema’s O.W.L-laden mind, a fair bit like some sort runic protection charm. Hidden depths, indeed.

The girl looked up at Anathema and let an easy smile glide over her face, a dreamy thing that lit up her eyes.

“Well, the most complicated problems often have the simplest of solutions, if they’re approached from a different angle. Like finding Crumple-horned Snorkacks.”

Anathema grinned. The Snorkack theory was one of the Quibbler’s ideas that was slightly less grounded in reality, but it was still an interesting concept, and Anathema reckoned that even if that particular animal didn’t exist, similar ones would have done at some point in magical history, there was plenty of fossil evidence for that.

“I should have known you read the Quibbler.”

The girl gave Anathema a sharp look, and when she spoke again, some of the vagueness was gone from her voice, replaced with an oddly intense sort of focus.

“My father’s the editor,” she said in a pleasant tone, but one with a hint of steel to it.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that as an insult!” she added hurriedly. “Honestly. I, um, read The Quibbler as well. A lot. Subscription and everything. It’s an excellent magazine, one of the few that actually has the _real_ news in it, as opposed to the absolute nonsense the Daily Prophet is spewing these days.”

The girl’s eyes seemed to soften slightly, but the newfound intensity in her eyes stayed the same. Anathema decided she rather liked it.

“That’s all right then,” she said, with sudden, disarming cheeriness, before extending a pale hand to Anathema. “I’m Luna Lovegood, by the way.”

“Anathema Device,” she replied, and shook it with a grin. “Now, are you going to wow me with these Ravenclaw riddle-solving abilities of yours, or are we going to stand out here all night?”

Luna smiled affably.

“Well, like you said, Anathema Device, this is a very nice bit of corridor. And you’re rather a nice person to be standing in it with.”

Anathema flushed. Luna had a very slow, matter-of-fact style of speech which felt as though it ought to clash with her apparently inherent vague dreaminess, and yet somehow seemed to work, lending weight to her statements and stopping Anathema from quite figuring out the meaning behind those prettily accented words.

Was this flirting? Anathema knew how to do a great many things, including, since last summer, how to tie a not insignificant number of complicated knots, but she hadn’t the foggiest clue of how to flirt. Especially not with a girl. And especially when it was still so bloody hard to distinguish, properly, between romantic and friendly feelings for girls because the two had meshed together so thoroughly over the years, because she’d been so desperately trying to play down what a lot of those feelings had meant, especially to herself. And, also, infuriatingly, because there were no rules of initiation between two girls the way there were with straight couples, no pantheon of culture and literature and film to copy from, because she didn’t know how to start things, because the girl was never _expected_ to start things, it was always the man who had all the agency, because of the bloody patriarchy, and why on Earth was she thinking about this now in the drafty corridor outside the Ravenclaw common room when Luna (and fuck, what a pretty name that was, _Luna Lovegood_ , rolled right off the tongue) was probably waiting for an answer, and was probably straight anyway? _Get it together, Anathema_ , said the stern little voice in the back of her head, which sounded a fair bit like what she imagined Agnes would have sounded like, and she pushed back her hair and returned her attention back to Luna.

“Well. Thank you, I suppose. Although I don’t think that I’ve done anything particularly nice. Certainly not nice enough to deserve the compliment, anyway.” _Oh, just accept the bloody compliment, will you?_ said that little voice wearily, although this time it was slightly less Agnes-y and slightly more just her own frustrated thoughts. _Or are you trying to get her to not like you?_ Anathema decided it was probably for the best if she just kept her stupid mouth shut, and an awkward silence filled their little corner of the corridor for a moment, as Luna smiled again in a faraway manner that didn’t quite reach her eyes , and fiddled idly with her necklace.

“A lot of people are terribly mean about the Quibbler, you know. They all think I’m insane. You’re probably the only other person in the school who properly reads it.” Luna blinked again, in that oddly slow, deliberate way of hers. “Do people think _you’re_ insane, as well?” This was asked in such a calm, mild manner that Luna might as well have been talking about the weather, and Anathema blinked slightly as she tried to take it in. _I mean. They usually tend to think I’m a bossy, overbearing bitch, so I suppose that’s not such a stretch..._

“Well, I don’t know. Some people might. But at any rate, I think that’s bullshit. We go to a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry, after all. I don’t see what’s so bad about being slightly more witchy than the rest of them.”

Luna smiled again, wider this time, and it was very, very pretty, and Anathema felt something clench in her chest.

“Shall I give this riddle a go, then?”

Anathema did her best to force a normal, non-creepy smile onto her face.

“By all means. Although you’re right, this corridor is suddenly a lot nicer than it was before we began this conversation.”

Luna gave a satisfied sort of nod, then twirled around to face the knocker and gave it a gentle rap. The metallic eagle burst into movement with a sudden fluidity that startled Anathema no matter how many times she watched it, the beak opening up in a proud arch of shining bronze.

“Can an objective Truth really exist?”

Luna removed her wand from behind her ear and tapped her chin with it thoughtfully before turning to Anathema, who shrugged in a way that she sincerely hoped read _I still think this question is objective nonsense_. Luna seemed to consider for a moment, before nodding decisively and gazing back at the knocker with steely determination in her eyes.

“hmmm… well, I’d say that the idea of an objective truth is in itself subjective, because everyone sees things differently,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, before her eyes seemed to light up with a flash of inspiration, and she quickly added, “and also, how can we prove that _anything_ really exists?”

The knocker inclined its head before going still once more, and the door slowly swung open. Anathema stared at Luna with an open mouth.

“See, that is _exactly_ why I’m not in Ravenclaw. I’m not nearly clever enough to think of things like that.”

Luna’s blushed, her pale face going a rather staggering shade of red that brought a grin to Anathema’s face.

“It’s not being clever. It’s only— seeing things differently. And a lot of people don’t like that.” Her tone took on a wry twang. “Teachers, too, in tests. They want you to regurgitate their thoughts, not come up with new ones. Luckily the door knocker is a lot less narrow minded than Professor Snape.”

The idea of Luna in one of Snape’s potions lessons brought an unexpected smile to Anathema’s face as she stepped through the doorway.

“Well, I do like it. And I think I quite like you, Luna Lovegood.”

Luna beamed and followed her through, the door softly swinging closed behind them.

“And I quite like you too, Anathema Device.”

They stood there for a moment, Anathema letting herself relax just a little as the familiar, soothing sight of the Ravenclaw Common room spilled into sight around her, wide and airy, filled with tons of bookshelves and huge floor-to-ceiling windows that gave ridiculously beautiful views of the Hogwarts grounds, with the forest to one side and the wide, rolling hills of the Scottish highlands to the other. It was probably one of the nicest rooms in all of Hogwarts, particularly in contrast to Anathema’s own try-hard dungeon. Anathema looked around, and caught sight of a familiar dark head of curls bent over an excruciatingly thick textbook at one of the small tables that dotted the room, tucked away in a corner on the right. Anathema looked back at Luna, suddenly awkward again.

“Well. Er. I can see my friend over there, so I suppose I’ll be off now, but thanks, you know, for getting me in.”

Luna smiled again, slightly more distant this time, as though she were looking straight through Anathema, rather than really _at_ her. It was mildly disconcerting.

“You’re a good person, you know, Anathema Device.”

And with that utterly unanswerable statement, Luna walked off, leaving Anathema feeling distinctly confused but strangely lighter than she had all evening as she walked over to Aziraphale’s table in the corner and slid into the chair opposite him.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“Two nights in a row? Do stop, or it’ll go to my head.”

Anathema grinned and pushed her hair back over her shoulders.

“Can’t be having that, can we? Well, sorry to bruise your newly-inflated ego, but my relatives are positively buzzing with new theories this year.” _True. Partially. Enough._ Anathema went quiet for a second, but her thoughts were full of blonde hair and little silver runes and a dreamy smile. “Look, do you know a girl called Luna Lovegood? Your house, possibly the year below us, blonde hair, wand sometimes tucked behind her left ear?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly.

“She comes up to me sometimes while I’m trying to study in order to bat away these invisible things she calls nargles which have apparently been bothering me. It can be quite annoying, on occasion.”

“She’s pretty,” said Anathema, fiddling with one of Aziraphale’s quills.

“If you say so,” said Aziraphale politely, looking back down at his textbook which, Anathema could see now, was something Herbology-related.

“Not that appearance is all that matters,” Anathema added hurriedly. “She’s also… I don’t know. She’s sort of different from anyone else I’ve ever met.”

Aziraphale still looked utterly confused. Anathema sighed, and decided to clue him in.

“I think I might… sort of like her,” she said, and it felt strange, admitting that, telling someone that she might sort of have a crush on a girl as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world, when this whole thing, this whole realisation that she could, _did_ like girls was still so new. “You know. Like that.”

Both Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up.

“As in— oh! Well. That’s very— nice,” he managed, still clearly completely at a loss for words, gazing down hopefully at his textbook as though it might contain answers, or even just an escape from Anathema and her constant pestering. But Anathema nodded thoughtfully anyway.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m rather hoping it will be.”

There was a beat of silence, and then she grinned. “Come on, then. Put away that absolute monstrosity of a textbook and let’s go look at some old prophecies.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes rather wearily, but complied willingly enough, and the two of them set off for the Ravenclaw boys’ dorms together. Before they left, Anathema cast a final glance around the vast expanse of the common room, searching for a final glimpse of a cloud of blonde hair, but Luna had vanished. Slightly disappointed, Anathema continued on her way to the dorm rooms, trying to keep her mind on her friend, who she’d come here specifically to see, and away from more dangerous topics like pale blue eyes and the prettiness of girls.

She wasn’t very successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! this is so self indulgent lmao but thats what fanfiction is for babyy  
> thanks so much for all your lovely comments!! i had my last exam today and these mocks went way better than the last set both in terms of the exams themselves and my general stress levels. :)


	23. Chapter 23

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutely not.”

Newt did his best to widen his eyes in a puppy-like fashion. It really just made him look a bit startled and mildly deranged, but Crowley didn’t have the heart to tell him.

“Oh come on, you know you want to.”

Crowley gave Newt a tired glance as he leaned back in the squashy yellow armchair next to the fire in the Hufflepuff common room that he’d managed to grab, for once. He’d missed this chair, hadn’t had a chance to spend any of his evenings here yet, not with Umbridge filling them all with her toad-like awfulness. He thoroughly intended to make up for lost time.

“Newt. We are not faking our own deaths so that you get out of doing your potions essay.”

Newt chucked down his quill in mock frustration. Ink droplets went flying, obscuring what little work he’d already done, and Newt winced before looking back over at Crowley, who gave him a distinctly _that’s what you get_ sort of smile.

“It’s not just to get me out of my essay, it’d get you out of having to do yours as well,” he said plaintively. “And—“ he gestured expansively at the now remarkably ink-stained table they’d been working at. “Well, you know how clumsy I am, everyone would buy it.”

Crowley folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“Not Aziraphale and Anathema,” he pointed out, deciding that stupid as this conversation was, it was still more entertaining than their bloody potions work. Crowley loved the Hufflepuff common room— it was small, earthy and homey and _warm_ , and also had a lovely little collection of potted plants. (He had, at some stage in first year, given them all names, and didn’t know whether he ought to be embarrassed or proud of the fact that he could still remember them all. Probably the former.) But as nice as the room was, there was something incredibly soporific about how warm and relaxed it was which made it incredibly difficult to focus on anything as menial as potions homework. Even potions homework that happened to be due the next day. “They’d think, no, that’d never happen, Crowley’s way too cool and smooth to die like that, there’s something more going on here, and then they’d come looking for us. Like…if Nancy Drew and Hercule Poirot teamed up together, or something.”

Newt thought for a moment, forehead crinkling.

“Which is which?”

Crowley grinned.

“Oh, Aziraphale is definitely the Nancy Drew in this scenario.”

Newt picked his quill back up and fiddled absently with it, glaring down at his still regrettably empty piece of parchment as he did so.

“Cool and smooth...” Newt repeated scathingly. “ _As if_.” He changed tack quickly though, and looked up at Crowley with a pleading expression on his face. “And it wouldn’t just be potions we’d be getting out of, you know. It’d be _O.W.L.s_.”

The corners of Crowley’s mouth twitched up into a smile.

“Tempting,” He said, picking at his fingernails. “But no, on the grounds that I am _devastatingly_ cool and smooth, _Newton_ , and you know it.”

Newt scoffed, and Crowley grinned, and then looked back down at his potions work with a sigh. Snape seemed to be taking a particularly brutal route to preparing his students for their exams. “I mean. No-one else is going to have done an excellent job on this essay either, are they?”

Newt shrugged.

“I bloody hope not. Christ. What else do we know about strengthening solutions?”

Crowley stretched out, cracking his spine and ignoring Newt’s pointed wince.

“Precisely fuck-all, that’s what.” He put down his quill and stood up. “I’m off to water the plants. Have fun coming up with some points while I’m gone.”

Newt balled up his ink-splattered parchment and chucked it at Crowley, who managed to dodge it, barely.

“Oi! I’m not doing all the work while you’re off waxing poetic to a bunch of bloody vines.”

Crowley picked up his wand and slid it into his coat pocket.

“Look, the tentaculas need watering, I’m not failing another O.W.L.” he picked up his bag and made to leave. “Be alive when I get back, will you?”

Newt folded his arms across his chest.

“I won’t. Just to spite you. And I’m going to leave all sorts of incriminating clues to make the ministry think you did it.”

Crowley nodded encouragingly.

“Now, see, take all that creative energy, and channel it into your potions essay.”

Newt gave him a positively charming two-fingered salute, and Crowley left the common room grinning.

 

The corridors were jarringly cold after the pleasant warmth of the Hufflepuff common room, and Crowley shuddered slightly and pulled his robes round him as he made his way down to the greenhouses. They’d be warm, at least. And aside from getting away from the endless deluge homework for a while, he really did want to see the tentaculas, check if they’d grown any more.

It was honestly ridiculous— already they towered over Aziraphale and even Crowley’s own lankier stature, a veritable maze of smooth green tendrils which ordinarily tended to sway slightly, as though they were underwater, although Crowley had seen the alarming force with which they struck out when Aziraphale fed them, the ominous crack as the chizpurfles met their unfortunate end. There was a reason Crowley preferred to sort of skulk behind Aziraphale for those bits.

Aziraphale. An oddly warm feeling spread through Crowley at the thought of his new friend, despite the chill of the corridor. They’d hugged twice now. That was… new. Everything about this situation still felt new and precarious and Crowley wasn’t quite sure where it was headed, but he was enjoying where this was going. Sort of. He liked Aziraphale, quite a lot actually, in a way that for reasons he couldn’t or wouldn’t vocalise to himself, he desperately needed Aziraphale to like him back. And that made Crowley vulnerable. Because caring about Aziraphale… it would be terribly easy for Crowley to get hurt. Not in an Umbridge-esque sense, but still. Not pleasant either. Crowley rounded the corner, walked past a corridor of empty portraits— their inhabitants must have been off having some sort of gathering— and let out a long, low sigh. He wished he could just turn that part of his brain off sometimes, the pacing, anxious part, and just relax and enjoy the time he spent with Aziraphale, rather than agonising and over-analysing every single conversation. Because they were great conversations, and Aziraphale was a great person, and—

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder with just slightly too much force to be friendly, and Crowley closed his eyes and let a small sigh escape him, instinctively knowing exactly who it was.

“Fancy seein’ you here, _Crawly_ ,” came the low, languid sneer that was Hastur’s voice, an improbably moneyed-sounding Mancunian twang mixed with a general aura of menace.

Crowley turned round to face him and removed Hastur’s hand from his shoulder with as much dignity as he could muster. Hastur grinned down at him. It was terribly unfair— as tall as Crowley was compared to most of his classmates, Hastur was taller still, and about twice as wide to boot. Ligur was waiting—or maybe _lurking_ worked better— a few steps behind, ever the watchful sidekick. A loyal guard dog, but, as Crowley knew all too well, one with unusually sharp teeth. Crowley glared at the pair of them in sullen resentment.

“A staggering coincidence, I’m sure.”

Hastur’s mouth split into a grin.

“See, Lig, he gets it. Must be all that O.W.L. revision he’s doing, making ‘im all observant, like.”

Ligur nodded dutifully.

“All them long sessions in the library…”

“An’ all that time in the greenhouses…”

Crowley blinked. There was something going on, and he couldn’t work out what it was, and with Hastur and Ligur, who were nothing if not creatures of habit, that was definitely something to be concerned about.

“Did the two of you rehearse this? I feel like I’m in some sort of lost Shakespeare play.”

Hastur scowled and powered on.

“Thing is, we’ve been _watching_ you, see.”

Now Crowley was really concerned, and equally desperate not to show it. He knew mouthing off to Hastur and Ligur was probably stupid, but he also knew that he could be as polite as he bloody wanted and that the outcome would be the same. And so he might as well come away with some shred of his dignity intact. And so he’d long ago resorted to bluster and sarcasm, pretending his words did anywhere near as much damage as their fists.

He knew it was useless, really. And pathetic.

And worse, he was relatively sure Hastur had worked this out, too.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Hastur. You’re a legal adult. I’m under the age of consent. Can you see how that might come across as just the slightest bit noncey?”

Hastur was getting annoyed now, Crowley could see, and he felt a perverse sort of satisfaction as the hulking Slytherin grabbed him by the front of his robes and pulled him forwards, half dragging Crowley off his feet.

“Have it your way, then. I’ll stop pissing around. Point is, we’ve seen you and your fucking boyfriend, all right? Being all lovey an’ shit.”

Ligur nodded vehemently, clearly feeling slightly left out.

“You know, Hastur, I know we’ve been calling ‘im gay an’ all for years, right, but I didn’t think he actually would be.”

Hastur pointedly ignored this, and Crowley took the opportunity to squirm out of his grip.

“My— I’m sorry, Hastur, but I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Hastur’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t lie. That fat Ravenclaw kid. I’ve _seen_ you.”

Crowley couldn’t tell if he felt incredulous, or just pissed off.

“Fucking _Hell_ , Hastur, he’s just a friend! Now I realise that the concept of friendship might be difficult for you, you plainly not having any, but—“

Hastur shoved Crowley against the stone wall of the corridor, hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

“Don’t take that fucking tone to me,” his piggy face pressed up to Crowley’s, close enough that Crowley could feel his hot breath on his face. “You kiss your boyfriend with that dirty mouth of yours?”

“I don’t—“ Crowley tried to protest, but Hastur just pushed him harder into the wall and steamrollered on.

“You know, Crawly, I think I’m honestly happy you use your filthy mother’s name. It’s better than dragging ours through the gutter, ain’t it, Ligur?” Hastur tilted his head to the side and swapped a sneering grin with Ligur, before fixing his gaze back on Crowley with an unnerving intensity. “You’re a fucking freak, you know that? Now, me and Ligur, we’re all open minded-like, but somehow I don’t think Da would take it quite the same way, if you catch my drift.”

“He’d _crucify_ you,” Ligur added helpfully, in case Crowley hadn’t quite gotten the message. Hastur nodded and twisted his mouth upwards in a grim smile devoid of any real humour, exposing a mouth full of yellow, slightly crooked teeth.

“So that, Crawly, is why when I tell you to watch your tone, you watch your fucking tone. I _own_ your ass now. You put so much as a teensy gay tone out of line, you’re _dead_ , got it?”

Crowley did his level best to wriggle his way out, but Hastur had him pinned tight.

“Look,” he tried, “this would all be very threatening if I _was_ dating him, only I’m _not_ , I swear down. So can I go now?”

Hastur leaned in even closer, a mock pout on his face.

“Crawly, do you think I actually _care_? I don’t like you, yeah? If I see an opportunity to make your miserable life just that little bit shitter, I will take it.” Hastur paused a moment, possibly for dramatic effect. “So you got any more clever bullshit to say now?”

Crowley could feel the rough edges of the stones behind him digging into his back, night-cold and sharp. He decided, for once in his life, that now might be a good time to keep his mouth safely shut.

Hastur continued to stare at Crowley for a few moments, the threat of violence eminently clear in those small, sunken eyes, before abruptly letting him go and stepping back towards Ligur. He cleared his throat gruffly.

“So. Watch what the fuck you do, Crawly. One step out of line, and I _skin_ you.”

And he grabbed Ligur’s arm and pulled him away, the two of them stalking off through the corridors, leaving Crowley rubbing his shoulders and with the strangest— _queerest_ , suggested a dark, bitter voice somewhere in the back of his head— feeling running through him.

Oh, he was so definitely screwed.

He stumbled off towards the greenhouses, not quite aware of his surroundings. Crowley had been aware, in a vague sort of way, for some time that he might be a bit or even entirely not straight. And as Ligur had so aptly put it, that had always felt like some sort of cruel joke on behalf of the universe, a sick sort of surprise. Because if Hastur and Ligur were right about that, how much of the other stuff, the insults and abuse hurled at him, was true as well? In Hastur’s mouth, words became weapons. Slurs hurled like knives, as _gay_ became synonymous with coward, with pathetic, with wrong, with disgusting, until Crowley wanted to rip his own insides out.

That had just been another thing he’d figured he’d bury deep down for another two years, explore more thoroughly once he was well away from the Jaegers and all their bullshit. Fighting down the spike of fear every time one of them said something homophobic, which was often, because what if they figured out the terrible accuracy of their statements _?_ What if they _knew_? Only now they did. Sort of. But only because they thought he was dating… Aziraphale?

Crowley almost wanted to laugh, because this whole situation was so beautifully stupid. This was so bloody typical, for Hastur to somehow come to the correct conclusion through a complete load of bollocks. How on Earth had they worked that one out, anyway? Yes, he’d hugged Aziraphale twice, but that had just been because he’d been upset and Aziraphale was a nice person, it hadn’t _meant_ anything. They’d had a lot of long, deep conversations, he supposed. And Crowley supposed that some of the things he’d said could be… misconstrued. Not that Hastur and Ligur had heard any of that. He hoped. So bloody Hell, then what? How the _fuck_ had Hastur come to this conclusion, and how could Crowley disillusion him of it as quickly as possible, preferably without hurting Aziraphale’s feelings in any way? The simplest solution might have been to just cut ties with the Ravenclaw altogether, but that might have looked just a tad suspicious, and besides… he didn’t really want to. Crowley didn’t want to hurt the other boy in any way, (that was, if Aziraphale cared strongly enough about Crowley’s company to be hurt in the first place) and moreover, he was surprised to find that he didn’t particularly like the idea of depriving himself of Aziraphale’s company, either. He liked Aziraphale, really he did. Just not in the way Hastur seemed to think he did. In a short space of time, he’d gotten used to the Ravenclaw’s calm presence, the small smiles, and soft curls, and Crowley supposed that he wouldn’t really mind dating Aziraphale, maybe. In a different universe. He did sort of wonder what it would be like to run his hands through Aziraphale’s hair, sometimes. It looked stupidly soft. And all those different shades of brown… Crowley wondered, in a distant, distracted sort of way, if he looked long enough, if he would find a strand of hair that would precisely match the soft brown of Aziraphale’s eyes.

Thoughts like that, Crowley thought with a sinking feeling, were probably exactly why Hastur thought they were dating.

Crowley pushed open the door to greenhouse five, relaxed instinctively as the warm air hit him, and then squeezed his eyes shut for a second as a barrage of memories hit him, bright and sudden and damning— both times Aziraphale had hugged him here, how Aziraphale had earnestly tried to help him with the whole Umbridge thing, the look in those brown eyes, the way he’d ducked behind Aziraphale the first time they’d fed the tentaculas, their two laughs mingling, the accidental brush of skin on skin, soft and fleeting and sending an unexpected tingling sensation coursing through Crowley’s very being. That strange awareness of Aziraphale’s reactions, and the need to make him happy, to make Aziraphale like him, that was totally different to how he interacted with Newt.

Well, that was the point, Crowley realised with a sudden jolt. His interactions with Aziraphale were completely different to those with Newt, and yeah, you could put some of that up to them simply being two different people, but there was that _awareness_ with Aziraphale, this burning need to be liked back, and then there was his whole obsession with Aziraphale’s hair and eyes, and how pretty they were. Crowley reckoned he would have been hard-pressed to name Newt’s eye colour. Brown, probably. Most people’s were.  But not the same warm, layered brown that seemed to be unique to Aziraphale, soft and yet focused at the same time, strangely riveting. And something about the intensity of the conversations he had with Aziraphale, long and languid and often about utter nonsense, but… important, somehow. Every interaction with Aziraphale felt _important._

Aziraphale had, somehow, become rather important to him. Behind Crowley's glasses, his eyes suddenly went very wide indeed.

Oh. Fucking _fuck_. Did he maybe sort of have a crush on Aziraphale?

And was he really so dense that bleeding _Hastur_ had noticed before he had?

What the Hell was he supposed to do with that information?

Crowley grabbed the watering can, and tried his best to make sense of his whirling thoughts, but feelings, especially this type of feeling, were fleeting, fragile things, unwilling to be pinned down. It didn’t matter now, anyway. If his feelings for Aziraphale were more than strictly platonic, he could hardly act on them now. Hastur usually followed through on his threats, and he was right, Crowley’s uncle would most definitely be less than thrilled with the news. And while Crowley was by now rather used to this particular quasi-familial brand of Hell, if there was even the faintest chance that Hastur and Ligur would go after Aziraphale, drag him into this somehow… Crowley just couldn’t risk that.

So he’d just keep his feelings to himself, like he always had. Push them down. Two more years, and then he’d be free to be as gay as he liked. The problem was, Crowley wasn’t sure how willing he was to wait two more years, now. What he was supposed to do with himself.

How on Earth was he supposed to talk to Aziraphale tomorrow? How was he supposed to do anything else? This whole situation  was already such a bloody mess, and he'd only been aware of it for about five minutes.

Aziraphale, Crowley had to remind himself sternly, with a sinking sort of feeling in his gut, hadn’t shown even the slightest bit of interest in him that way. He very probably wasn’t even gay.

 _He’s friends with Anathema, and she’s gay_ , offered one particularly hopeful part of his brain.

 _And?_ came the instant rebuttal. _All that means is that he isn’t overtly homophobic. Which we knew anyway, because you wouldn’t like him so much if he was. And even if he is gay, dipshit, that still doesn’t mean he likes you._

Crowley sighed and lugged the watering can over to the tentaculas, the sight of them bringing a wan smile to his face despite everything. The plants seemed slightly more active than usual this evening, spiky tendrils of green swirling almost as though they could sense his agitation.

“Hello,” muttered Crowley, trying to impose some sort of order over the situation, to take back a little bit of control. “You would not _believe_ the evening I’ve had.” The tentaculas swayed in a way that seemed to say that they didn’t particularly care, as long as they got some water, and Crowley acquiesced and began to gently water the soil around their stems, trying to settle back into the steady routine.

That was another thing, Crowley’s panicky brain reminded him. Hastur and Ligur had seen him in here. Where had they been watching from? And what else had they seen? Had they seen him talking to the tentaculas? Crowley sincerely hoped not— not that there was anything  inherently wrong with that or anything, but it was _embarrassing,_ all his little threats and things, and Hastur and Ligur sure as Hell didn’t need any more ammunition than they already had.

Crowley finished his watering and set his watering can down, but the plants kept on swaying impatiently, as though they were trying to draw his attention. Crowley frowned at them.

“What, are you hungry?” Crowley let out another sigh, and leant his elbows on the small wooden border of the plant bed, so that he was slouching towards the tentaculas, his head level with the centre of the emerald whorl of glinting sharp spikes and smooth, vine-like branches. “Oh, please don’t make me get out the chizpurfles, I already feel shit enough as it is.” The plant nearest Crowley twitched slightly, as though taking offense, and Crowley shot it a look of pure exhaustion. “Look, Az— Aziraphale— will do it first thing tomorrow morning, yeah?” he said, stumbling slightly over the name but pulling through, he thought, with remarkable dignity, considering. The plant continued to sway impatiently, and Crowley continued leaning on the border for support, trying to muster up the energy to go back and see Newt, and worse still, the dreaded potions essay. Crowley let his eyes drift shut, just for a second, just to try and focus himself, and when he opened them again, he was suddenly very aware of the fact a green tentacle was sneaking out towards him with the sudden, decisive speed that the plant always somehow had when reaching for a chizpurfle—

—several things occurred to Crowley all at once: the wet cracking noise the chizpurfles made when the tentaculas grabbed them, the flash of a memory, after one of his detentions with Umbridge, of blood sinking into soil, almost as though it had been sucked down, of how uncannily fast the plants had grown—

—and then the tentacle surged forwards and pulled itself around Crowley’s right arm, twisting painfully, and Crowley fought back a yell of pain as he scrabbled desperately for his wand with his left hand, dragging it out of his pocket with agonising slowness. When Crowley finally had it, he pointed it at his other hand in what he hoped was a threatening manner, trying his best to remember the best way to get the bloody thing off without damaging the plant itself. Or his arm, for that matter.

“ _Relashio_ ,” he tried, sparks flying, bright enough to leave dazzling imprints on his retinas even through his sunglasses, and the vine ensnaring his arm went from just uncomfortably tight, to uncomfortably tight and uncomfortably hot. Crowley swore, loudly, because this was rather an inconvenient situation, wasn’t it, and racked his brains with increasing desperation.

He had a vague recollection of a spell, but wasn’t sure whether it would damage the plant or not.

The vine cinched tighter, and Crowley decided that if it didn’t come off soon, his arm probably would.

“ _Diffindo_ ,” he managed through gritted teeth, and gave a relieved gasp as the vine sprang back abruptly, relinquishing his arm with frightening speed but otherwise seemingly completely unharmed. Crowley shook out his right forearm, trying to restore some feeling to it, and quickly moved out of what he estimated to be the tentacula’s range, heart still racing frantically. Crowley held his arm up to the light, trying to gauge the damage— he was bleeding in several places where the tentacula’s spikes had dug into his skin, and squinted, trying to focus his eyes properly— was that a slightly greenish tinge around the wounds? That definitely wasn’t healthy. Crowley held his arm up as close to his face as he could, although the movement sent stabbing needles of pain coursing up through him— somehow he couldn’t seem to see the cuts clearly, his vision going fuzzy around the edges.

 _It’s called_ Venomous _Tentacula for a reason, you idiot_ , he realised abruptly, and then his vision seemed to go completely black, and the last thing he was aware of was the loud crack and a sudden flare of pain as his head hit the floor.

And then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not only do i hate writing Hastur and Ligur because they're awful, the last time i tried to write them was in dutch, and the dialouge is much less fun when you can't just attach 'cunting' to the front of every other word as an adjective.  
> there's a lot to unpack in this one, but i hope you enjoyed and thanks so much for reading!!


	24. Chapter 24

Aziraphale slowly made his way down to the greenhouses, head still slightly bleary in the dim early morning light. The sun was already beginning to rise later and later, and soon, Aziraphale reckoned, he’d be making this trip in complete darkness. Not that he minded— inexplicably, waking up early to feed and water the tentaculas had become one of Aziraphale’s favourite parts of the day, a nice, quiet moment to allow his thoughts to settle into a comfortable rhythm before the day began.

He was beginning to understand why Crowley liked plants so much, now— it was remarkably comforting, the fact that his little actions had created the towering behemoths that the tentaculas had so quickly grown into, a visual representation of the fact that he _did_ matter, that his actions could still influence the world, just a little. The act of creation.

And he liked the not-quite solitude of it— the quiet to be alone with his thoughts, but also the knowledge that Crowley, at night, was doing the exact same (well, minus the feeding part, he really was rather squeamish about that), the idea of their actions mirroring each other, creating some sort of intangible connection. He had, on occasion, even found himself sort of mumbling in a vaguely encouraging way to the plants, and for some inexplicable reason, he always felt an odd, floaty sensation when he realised that this was exactly what Crowley had told him was what he did.

Aziraphale walked on, slightly out of breath from positively stupid amount of stairs, the fresh, cold air against pressing tight against his face, waking him up as the early-morning chill slowly began to seep out of the cool stone. He rounded another corner, enjoying the echoing, officious noise his feet made as they clattered over the smooth slabs of paving stone, the sense of purpose they gave him, and then it was a short stretch of being outside, in the full force of the bitter autumn damp, the clumps of leaves that were already beginning to drop off the trees and that someone was going to have to vanish away at some point, as he quickly hurried past on his way to greenhouse five.

Aziraphale gently pushed open the door and slipped in, doing his best to let as little heat escape as possible, and felt himself flush in the sudden rush of warm air. It was terribly unfair— Crowley always managed to carry off the warmth of the greenhouses remarkably well, almost relaxing into it, whereas Aziraphale was relatively sure he just looked sweaty and uncomfortable. Aziraphale shook his head and pushed his curls back off his forehead, wishing that he could let his hair grow out just a little more so that he could tie it back occasionally, get it properly out of his face. His parents would utterly resent the idea, of course, but then they also resented the idea of him cutting it shorter. It was a bit of a conundrum.

Aziraphale went over to the corner to grab a watering can, and saw to his chagrin that the little green one he and Crowley usually opted for wasn’t in its proper spot. Aziraphale let out a little sigh and slung a nearby black watering-can over his arm instead, although of course it wasn’t quite the same. He did hope the green one turned up soon— it was— this was embarrassingly silly— but it had become his and Crowley’s little watering can, the same way that this had become his and Crowley’s little routine. Aziraphale had become oddly reliant on it, how easy it was to fall into a pattern. Well, he could ask Crowley at breakfast if he’d had it last night, he supposed. Carrying his as-yet empty, sub-par watering can— he’d magic it full once he’d gotten over to the tentaculas to save himself the bother of lugging it all the way there— he then made his way over to the little tray where Professor Sprout kept all the chizpurfles, and carefully scooped four into a small bucket. Satisfied that he had all he needed, Aziraphale made his way at a leisurely pace towards the little plot of earth at the back of the greenhouse, examining some of the other students’ plants as he did so— some good attempts, and a simply outstanding crop of Chinese Chomping Cabbages, but none, Aziraphale marked with a small glow of pride, anywhere near the remarkable growth and lustre of their tentaculas.

Humming quietly to himself, Aziraphale made the sudden right turn to get to their little allocated area of soil— and then skidded to a stop suddenly, chizpurfles rattling in their bucket as Aziraphale’s face creased into a sudden frown.

There was someone lying sprawled out on the soil-strewn floor ahead of Aziraphale, dark hair spilling over their face. A boy, tall and lanky, long limbs falling in a tangle, and with a small pair of unusually dark sunglasses still perched crookedly on the bridge of his nose.

“Crowley?” asked Aziraphale tentatively, more confused than concerned. “What on— _Crowley_ ,” he said again, more sharply this time, noticing that his friend still hadn’t moved. When there was still no response, a small flicker of concern began to throb in Aziraphale’s chest, as he struggled to think of a rational explanation— or any explanation, really— for why, exactly, Crowley might decide it would be a good idea to take a little nap on the greenhouse floor, which in addition to being perpetually strewn with a smattering of soil, sticks, leaves, and whatever other plant-based detritus Professor Sprout hadn’t deemed dangerous enough to vanish away, also looked remarkably hard and uncomfortable.

Aziraphale set down his watering can and chizpurle with a deliberately loud _clack_ , watching intently to gauge if this elicited any sort of reaction from Crowley, and when the Hufflepuff remained motionless, Aziraphale tentatively knelt down next to Crowley, with a sinking, twisting feeling that really was starting to feel quite a bit like worry beginning to course through his stomach. He peered closely at Crowley’s slack face, which was, he could see in the warm light of the greenhouses, a good few shades paler than normal. Aziraphale realised, with a sudden jolt of fear, quite how similar being asleep and being unconscious could look from an outside perspective.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said again, voice slightly pleading this time, and eerily loud against the sudden tense silence that thudded against his ears, as even the plants seemed to be peering down, trying to see what was going on. Aziraphale carefully reached out and gave Crowley’s shoulder a gentle shake, doing his utmost to avoid any real skin-to-skin contact, and the concerned furrow that had appeared between his eyebrows deepened, as Crowley simply flopped limply, his head slowly falling to the side, dislodging the thick wave of hair that had obscured his face and revealing a thick, dull scratch across the right lens of his sunglasses in the sudden gleam of light. Aziraphale swallowed thickly, his dim feelings of concern now well on their way to becoming full-fledged panic.

Loath as he was to make actual skin contact with Crowley’s unmoving form— this felt like crossing a line, somehow— Aziraphale pressed his hand gently to Crowley’s forehead, frowning when it felt cold and clammy, even in the sweltering heat of the greenhouse.

Something, Aziraphale thought, heart thudding in sudden panic, was most definitely wrong. And he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what it was, or what on Earth he was supposed to do about it. _Deep breaths_ , he told himself, suddenly understanding Crowley’s nervous energy, his constant, jittery movement, because this, sitting rock-still next to Crowley’s now eerily motionless body as the silence closed in, this felt awful. He needed to be doing something, to be helping Crowley somehow, to do anything other than to just sit there and stare intensely at him, as if that was going to make one iota of difference. _Okay. All right._ He just had to think this through rationally. He was a Ravenclaw, after all. This was supposed to be what he was good at. He just needed to find out what had happened to Crowley, if he was all right Aziraphale thought, trying to get his thoughts back onto a neatly ordered track, and then he would go and get a teacher, preferably Professor Sprout, and everything would be sorted out and Crowley would be perfectly fine. Yes. Right.

Aziraphale tore his eyes away from Crowley’s face and, feeling intensely awkward even though Crowley blatantly wasn’t aware of his presence, slowly let his gaze drift downwards, looking for a wound or a gash or anything that would give him an idea. Some sort of plant-based injury was definitely most likely, given their surroundings, and Aziraphale felt faintly proud of the fact that he’d managed to come up with a semi-plausible hypothesis. _I’m not completely hysterical, see?_ Aziraphale peered nervously up at the plants around him, feeling a twinge of guilt as he caught sight of the tentaculas up above, swaying in their strange, slow way, and he realised that he still hadn’t watered or fed them, although it vanished quickly when he looked back down at Crowley. He liked the plants, really he did, but frankly, he had other priorities at the moment. Aziraphale resumed his search, heart racing as his eyes latched onto a small tear on Crowley’s right sleeve. Aziraphale muttered a quick apology to Crowley, and then awkwardly pulled the sleeve upwards, trying to gauge if Crowley had potentially cut himself on any of the mildly venomous plants in the greenhouse. And then swore, startlingly loud in the hot quiet of the greenhouse, and let Crowley’s arm flop back onto the ground, which it hit with an alarmingly loud _thunk_ , and then swore about that as well.

Aziraphale tried his best to fight down the racing wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. _Deep breaths, rational thoughts. Come on._ But, Aziraphale thought, this was really rather difficult to remain rational about.

Crowley’s forearm was crossed with deep, angry cuts, small and circular, some still oozing faintly in a way that made the bile rise in Aziraphale’s throat, a slight greenish tinge around them that looked fundamentally wrong against the brown of Crowley’s skin. Crossing past there were languid, almost lazy red marks, circling his arm.  There was also a not insignificant amount of blood, most of it dry, congealed along Crowley’s arm in that same odd, almost spiral shape, and also, Aziraphale could see now, crusted into the dark of Crowley’s sleeve. Aziraphale looked up from Crowley’s motionless form to the tentaculas up above, their long, spiked tentacles still swaying in their strange dance, and had a sudden terrible stab of realisation.

This was bad. This was most definitely bad. Not two minutes ago, Aziraphale had felt terribly guilty for not feeding the tentaculas, and now… Aziraphale thought of the eager violence with which the plants surged forward to grab the chizpurfles, the sheer force they used to crack open their small bodies, and felt slightly sick, particularly when he thought of how much that whole process always upset Crowley.

He should go and get Professor Sprout, the sooner the better, but at the same time, the problem with that plan was that it would involve leaving Crowley on his own, and despite how tall he was, Crowley really did look startlingly small, devoid of all his usual grandiose mannerisms, his energy— everything that made him Crowley, really. Now he just looked small, and lost, and the idea of leaving him alone, unconscious and with that slack, oddly vulnerable look on his face made something inside of Aziraphale recoil instinctively.

But still, what else was he supposed to do? He could hardly drag Crowley with him. _You weren’t even willing to carry a full watering can from the entrance of the greenhouse_ , his subconscious reminded him nastily. Small and scrawny as he might look, Crowley, Aziraphale knew, was _tall,_ and so would probably be heavy, and besides, he’d most likely only injure his friend more.

Aziraphale got up slowly, awkwardly, casting Crowley a last regretful glance as he got up to leave.

“I _am_ coming back, you know,” he told Crowley, voice shakier than he would perhaps like. “I’m not— leaving you here, or anything. I’m just going to get Professor Sprout. So she can help you.” Aziraphale stared down at Crowley for a few moments more, waiting for a response that obviously wasn’t coming, feeling like he should say something else, even though Crowley plainly couldn’t hear him. “You’re going to be just fine,” he said, finally, and then set off at a fairly ridiculous half-trot to go and find Professor Sprout, as quickly as he could.

 

The problem, Aziraphale realised almost instantly, was that he didn’t actually know where the professor _was._ Breakfast had probably started now, by Aziraphale’s best estimate, but precisely because breakfast tended to be slightly more spread out than the other meals, the teachers usually didn’t put in an appearance. So where, then? For Professor Sprout, he usually would have checked the greenhouses first, but, well, that plainly wasn’t the case. _The staffroom_ , Aziraphale realised with a jolt. That was where a lot of the teachers went in between lessons. And even if the Professor herself wasn’t there, perhaps one of the other teachers would know where she was. And besides, it wasn’t far— just on the ground floor, relatively close. Aziraphale nodded decisively to himself, and sped up, well aware of the fact that he probably looked ridiculous but too worried to care.

Aziraphale reached the door to the staffroom within a matter of minutes, a thick, heavy wooden thing, flanked by two ominously large stone gargoyles which Aziraphale eyed warily, not quite sure of how to proceed but excruciatingly aware of how long he was taking, the image of Crowley’s pale face fixed firmly in his mind. Aziraphale knocked— well, banged, really, with as much force as he could muster— on the door to the staffroom, deciding that one way or another, he was going to get in.

The door swung open, and the assorted teachers inside— no sign of Umbridge, thank _God_ — stopped in their chatter to stare at Aziraphale with expressions of mild bemusement. Aziraphale realised he must look a state— he was acutely aware of his racing heart, how sweaty his palms had become, and he took a shaky, nervous breath, looking around until, thankfully, his eyes locked on Professor Sprout.

“Er. Professor Sprout,” he began, anxious and too quick and stumbling over himself slightly, “could you please— something’s happened to Crowley. Please— it’s _urgent_ ,” he managed, well aware that this was fully incoherent and hating himself for it.

But the Professor merely put down the parchement she had been holding, nodded briskly, and made her way over to Aziraphale, gently guiding him out of the staff room.

“What happened?” she asked, her tone serious, taking in what he had to say, as though she was genuinely concerned, and something deep inside Aziraphale cracked with gratitude, with the fact that she was _listening_ to him, that she would help, that this might actually turn out all right.

Aziraphale shook his head vaguely.

“I don’t— I think he may have caught his arm on the tentaculas, or— or something,” he finished lamely. “He’s in greenhouse five, I found him this morning when I went in to water them, and he won’t wake up, and—“ Aziraphale broke off, unsure if he was out of breath or simply close to tears, and Professor Sprout nodded and increased their pace slightly.

They reached the greenhouse within a few minutes, the familiar wave of heat making Aziraphale feel slightly nauseous as he quickly picked his way through the aisles of green, searching for where he had left Crowley.

_Please, please, please be all right_ …

Aziraphale felt his shoulders slump in relief when he finally caught sight of Crowley, still lying sprawled and limp on the floor, but— Aziraphale stared intently at the other boy’s chest, reassured by its regular rise and fall, trying to get his own thudding heart to match it. While still unconscious, Crowley at least seemed to be in much the same condition as before Aziraphale had left him.

Professor Sprout’s small frame gently pushed past him, clucking softly as she bent over to examine Crowley’s arm.

“Yes, those look like tentacula marks all right… well, I’ll take him up to the hospital wing, and you had better be off to breakfast, Mr Douglass, before you’re late to first lesson.”

Aziraphale stared at the professor, uncomprehending.

“But— I can’t just _leave_ him— is he going to be all right?”

Professor Sprout gave Aziraphale a reassuring pat on the back.

“Mr Crowley will be just fine, I’m sure. Madame Pomfrey is extremely good at her job. And I know Crowley wouldn’t want you to be this upset, hmm? You’ve already done a great deal for him. Go to breakfast, Mr Douglass. Eat something, and let yourself relax. You’ll be able to visit him soon.”

Aziraphale continued to stare blankly. He’d wanted this, he supposed. He’d wanted Professor Sprout to come over, and fix the problem, and for Crowley to instantly be okay again, but at the same time, he’d been the one to find Crowley. He was Crowley’s _friend._ And he felt— responsible, somehow, and now he was just being sent away, like a small child. And Crowley might turn out to be perfectly fine, or he wouldn’t be, and _Aziraphale wouldn’t know._ That— scared him. How worried he was. How much he cared. How stupidly reliant on Crowley’s presence he’d become, in such a short space of time. How terribly pale and still Crowley was.

“Mr Douglass,” Professor Sprout prompted again, and Aziraphale nodded numbly and slowly turned to make his way to the dining hall, feeling, somehow as though Crowley was watching him go. Doing his best not to look back, one last time, as though that would hex things, somehow. Which was utterly ridiculous.

There was nothing, Aziraphale thought grimly, that he wanted more than for the world to just make _sense._ To follow nice, proper rules, black and white and bible-crisp. For there to be clear options and solutions at every turn. But it wasn’t, and there weren’t. The world seemed to be split into myriad shades of grey, deep and dark and circular and never-ending as Crowley’s own sunglasses, and terrible things happened with alarming frequency, and Aziraphale could do precisely nothing to stop them, or even to help. He could barely even manage his own bloody O.W.L.s. and why on _Earth_ was he thinking about his exams now when Crowley was— was— he wanted everything to slow down again, to be simple, and easy, but it all just kept piling up, mounds and mounds of pressure and disaster and, if Aziraphale was perfectly honest, pure _shite._

Aziraphale made his way to the great hall in a daze, barely aware of where he was going, suddenly aware of how tired he was and the long day that he still had ahead of him, where he would _have_ to focus on lessons, because he had his O.W.L.s coming up after all, every lesson counted now, and _Jesus Christ_ why did he keep thinking about his exams, his own silly, distant problems? Why was he this bloody self-absorbed?

_It’s because that, at least, I can vaguely control_ , Aziraphale thought glumly. _I can study and worry and fret and learn things, and— and make that better for myself. I can’t do a damn thing to help Crowley._

As Aziraphale slowly wound his way down the last corridor to the great hall, it occurred to him suddenly, with a great cold stab of realisation, that he was going to have to tell Anathema and Newt what had happened to Crowley. He felt his stomach lurch at the thought, frazzled mind trying to find a way to translate that morning’s events into a simple summary, and failing miserably. Aziraphale drew a last, exhausted breath, and then walked into the great hall, half collapsing in his usual seat next to Anathema. Across from her, Newt shot him a worried look. The Hufflepuff looked as terrible as Aziraphale felt— hair dishevelled, with slight bags under his eyes and a haggard expression on his face.

“Is— is Crowley not with you?” asked Newt, the strangest expression on his face. “I— he went out to water your plants last night, you know, and it got really late, and— he didn’t come back. I tried to stay up to wait for him, honest, only—“ he stared down at the table cloth, half sheepish, half defensive. “I fell asleep.”

There was a terribly awkward pause during which Aziraphale had to take a moment to think about how he was supposed to formulate his response, as the meaning behind Newt’s words sank in— Crowley had been in the greenhouse, presumably unconscious, since last night. Since curfew was at ten, Crowley would presumably have set off at least half an hour earlier. Aziraphale did some mental calculations, and felt his blood run cold. But before he could respond, Newt was talking again, twisting his mouth into a half-smile that looked vaguely painful.

“It’s only,” he said, in what might have been the worst attempt at nonchalance that Aziraphale had ever heard, had Aziraphale not spent a large proportion of the last few weeks talking to Crowley, “we have this potions essay due, right, and we were supposed to do that when he came back, so obviously that didn’t get done, so, uh, Snape’s going to _gut_ me.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, _do_ get over yourself, Newt,” she said, peering over at Aziraphale as she did so. “I mean, I don’t suppose you do happen to know where Crowley’s buggered off to, or anything?”

Aziraphale let his hands rest on the dining table and examined his fingernails with sudden great interest. They were in need of a slight trim.

“Ah. He’s, er, in the hospital wing. Or at least, I presume he’s gotten there by now.” Aziraphale did his best to keep his voice steady, but wasn’t quite successful. Newt and Anathema stared at him.

“Sorry,” said Newt, finally, “he’s bloody _where_ , now?”

Aziraphale picked at a bit of dirt that was caught under one of his fingernails, and let out a small sigh. And then it all came spilling out— finding Crowley, the mess of his arm, getting Professor Sprout, and then how he’d been brusquely sent away.

“She just told you to go and _have breakfast_?” Anathema asked, tone a delicate blend of incomprehension and indignation. “So you don’t actually know if Crowley’s all right?”

“He better be,” said Newt grimly, “or I’m going to kill the bastard myself.” He took an ominous bite of toast, and Aziraphale had to fight the sudden, bizarre urge to smile, despite everything. Crowley’s empty chair caught on his gaze, that same old scared uncertainty, the _not knowing_ , threatening to swallow Aziraphale whole.

Only, Aziraphale decided suddenly, looking round at Anathema and Newt, he wasn’t going to let it.

Aziraphale stood up decisively, and brushed the breadcrumbs off his hands.

“Well. Let’s go and find out for ourselves, shall we?”

Newt looked up at him in mild befuddlement.

“What, after Professor Sprout told you not to and everything? We’d almost definitely be late to first lesson. I mean, I’m in favour of this, obviously,” Newt added hurriedly, “the more of potions I get to miss, the better.”

Anathema stood up as well, giving Aziraphale a small smile as she did so.

“Well, I suppose if we were going to be late for any reason, this is quite a good one, don’t you think?” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “And otherwise we’ll have to wait until what, lunch?”

“Quite,” agreed Aziraphale, shouldering his satchel, and Newt nodded, looking a touch apprehensive, not that Aziraphale could blame him, and off they went.

As they made their way up to the hospital wing, for all his grand statements, Aziraphale could still feel a distinct twinge of nervousness. This was still going against the direct orders of a teacher, after all. Although, in retrospect, Aziraphale supposed that Professor Sprout had only really told him to go to breakfast. She hadn’t given him any specific instructions on what he was supposed to do after that. So, _technically,_ he supposed, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. But it felt odd all the same, the three of them walking in near silence through an empty corridor. Foreboding, somehow. Finding out if Crowley was all right, or not finding out, it wouldn’t change a thing. But it was a very Schrödinger’s cat type situation— for now, Crowley could, somehow, be terribly sick or injured, or he might be fine. But once they arrived— well, they’d know, so Aziraphale would be able stop coming up with terrible hypothetical scenarios, but at the same, if Crowley really wasn’t all right, that would become real. Solidified, somehow, even though all that would have changed would be his own perception. His understanding of what, exactly, had happened to Crowley wouldn’t change that thing by one iota; all that Aziraphale would be able to do was watch, and he resented that.

When they finally arrived at the door to the hospital wing, Aziraphale swapped nervous glances with Newt and Anathema, and then they pushed open the solid wooden doors, and went in.

The hospital wing was still eerily quiet at this time of year— the quidditch season hadn’t started yet, after all— and there was, for the moment, no sign of Madam Pomfrey, which Aziraphale decided was probably for the best— they’d actually get a chance to lay eyes on Crowley without being thrown out.

“Come on,” said Anathema, quietly, and they made their way down the rows of empty beds, made up with military precision, right the way down, each step an agonising eternity, until finally Anathema stopped at the last bed down the left-hand side.

Aziraphale felt something constrict in his throat as he caught sight of Crowley, slumped over in the stark white of the bed, dark hair spilling over the pillow like an oil slick. He still didn’t appear to be conscious, and the stark white of the bed only served to make Crowley look all the more pale and wan. A thick white bandage snaked up his right arm, stretching from his palm up to his elbow, hiding every angry cut and mark.

Aziraphale noticed, with a sudden jolt, that Crowley wasn’t wearing his sunglasses— someone, presumably Madam Pomfrey had carefully folded and placed them on the little bedside table, and Aziraphale peered done at Crowley’s unguarded face with a fascination that was almost definitely inappropriate, given the situation. But without his glasses on, Crowley looked strikingly different, more vulnerable somehow— Aziraphale could see the full arc of his cheekbones, the high swoop of his nose, and even Crowley’s eyelashes, long and dark as they curled against his cheeks. Aziraphale had never realised quite how fascinating _eyelashes_ could be before, how all the sharp curves and angles of Crowley’s face could combine to make something so soft. Crowley really did have rather a nice face. A face that Aziraphale liked looking at, whatever that said about him. But what Aziraphale liked more, he realised with a sinking feeling, was the way Crowley’s emotions played over that face, the quirk of an eyebrow or the delicate upwards twist of a smile. What Aziraphale liked more was _Crowley_.

Aziraphale stared down at his friend with a sinking feeling, and wished he would wake up.

He was jolted out of his thoughts abruptly by the sound of footsteps clattering over the cool floor, and whirled around to swap mildly panicky glances with Newt and Anathema as Madame Pomfrey made her way towards them with remarkable speed, a markedly displeased expression on her face.

“Shouldn’t you three be in lessons?” She asked, peering up at the clock set on the far wall. “Visiting hours aren’t until lunch.”

Anathema tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears and gave the nurse her most winning smile.

“We know, it’s only—“ she gestured at Crowley’s bed behind her—“we were a tad concerned about our friend. We just wanted to make sure he was all right.”

Madam Pomfrey’s uptight expression didn’t change, but something around her eyes seemed to soften slightly.

“Oh, he’ll be right as rain in no time,” she said briskly, and Aziraphale felt something uncoil in relief, deep inside his chest, as Madame Pomfrey continued on. “A fairly standard case of tentacula poisoning, nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times before. I’ve given him a potion for it, all he needs now is some time for the venom to leave his system— and some _rest_ ,” she added, giving their little trio a pointed glare. Newt glared back.

“Well, we’re not really stopping him from doing that, are we? Seeing as how he’s still passed out, and all?”

Aziraphale shot Newt an exasperated sideways glance. The last thing they needed was to be kicked out.

“Er. What my friend here means to say is that he was just wondering when Crowley might wake up?”

Madame Pomfrey considered this for a moment, turning quickly to fix a minuscule crease on the duvet cover of the neighbouring bed.

“He did get rather a large dose of venom— and it was in his system for several hours before he was handed over to my care, and that won’t have helped either—“ both Newt and Aziraphale looked rather awkward about this— “so a few days, I should think.”

“A few _days_?” echoed Anathema, with mild incredulity.

“Yes, and he’ll likely be rather dazed when he does come to,” said Madame Pomfrey, with a distinct air of finality. “Now, if there are no more questions, the three of you had better be off to your lessons.”

Once back out in the corridor, Newt, Anathema and Aziraphale exchanged worried glances.

“What do you reckon, then?” asked Anathema after a while, finally breaking the silence.

“ _I_ reckon there’s no bloody way I’m going to potions now,” grumbled Newt. “Might as well skive off the rest of the lesson.”

Aziraphale pulled out his trusty old pocket watch.

“There’s a good twenty minutes left of first lesson, you know,” he said without much enthusiasm. “I’ll probably just go to Transfiguration and hope that I can still follow whatever it is they’re doing.”

“Yeah, only Snape always collects in homework at the end of the lesson,” Newt pointed out. Anathema raised a delicately arched eyebrow.

“I was talking about Crowley, really, but it’s always good to see you’ve got your priorities in order.”

“I can be worried about Crowley _and_ my potions homework! But yeah,” added Newt in a softer voice, “Crowley. God. It was weird, seeing him all still like that.”

“Don’t the two of you sleep in the same dorm?” asked Aziraphale, reckoning he should involve himself in the conversation somehow. He was incredibly relieved by the news that Crowley was going to be all right, even if it was going to take a few days, but still, something about this whole situation made Aziraphale want to withdraw deep inside of himself, or maybe just to take a nap. He was exhausted, and it was barely ten in the morning.

“Well, yeah,” said Newt expansively, “only he doesn’t sleep like _that_ , you know? He rolls around and buries himself in the duvet and shit. He doesn’t just— lie there.”

They had, somehow, already reached the junction at the end of the corridor. The three of them paused awkwardly, slightly unwilling to part ways. The more Aziraphale thought about the loud, busy atmosphere of Professor McGonagall's classroom, filled with spells flying this way and that, the less he wanted to go. And besides, he supposed they had rather a good excuse. He turned to face Newt.

“Oh, look— you’re right, I don’t particularly want to go to class either— is there anywhere we could go? Just until first lesson is over?”

Newt nodded.

“There’s a great spot under the stairs by the bust of Galen— I bunked off every single flying lesson in first year,” he said in response to the bemused look on Aziraphale’s face. “You’ve seen how clumsy I am, I reckon I would have snapped my bloody neck… but anyway,” he finished hurriedly.

Aziraphale cast a questioning glance over to Anathema.

“Are you coming as well?”

Anathema nodded, pushing her satchel slightly higher up one shoulder.

“I’ve got divination, ‘course I am,” she said, giving Aziraphale a wan smile. “And besides,” she added, “it’s been a hell of a morning, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale tiredly, “I suppose it has.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much as ever for reading this stupidly long thing and for all your lovely comments and kudos, you're all absolutely brilliant!!


	25. Chapter 25

Madame Pomfrey, Aziraphale thought with some irritation, must have a rather different interpretation of ‘a few days’ from the rest of the world. It had been three full days since he’d first found Crowley, and the other boy still hadn’t moved an inch.

Aziraphale had quickly, if somewhat begrudgingly, settled into a new routine— with Crowley temporarily incapacitated, it fell to Aziraphale to water the tentaculas morning, afternoon, and night, which had, suddenly, become a vastly less enjoyable experience. He and Professor Sprout had agreed that no matter what damage the plants had inflicted on Crowley, they were still excellent specimens, and restarting now would put them at a serious disadvantage for their O.W.L. But Aziraphale couldn’t help nursing a slight grudge against the tentaculas— watching them devour the chizpurfles no longer felt anywhere near as natural or even interesting as he had previously found it. Now, when he saw the quick, deadly lunge of a smooth green tentacle, he couldn’t help but think of the mess of Crowley’s arm, and felt slightly sick. The relaxation of the whole process was gone now, as well— in order to prevent a repeat incident, Aziraphale was now under strict instructions to pull on thick dragonhide gloves every time he came anywhere near the plants, even if it was only to water them, and all the feedings had to happen under Professor Sprout’s supervision, which always made Aziraphale feel slightly prickly, stupidly worried about making a mistake.

And in between being in the greenhouses and trying to keep on top of the steadily increasing stream of homework, Aziraphale would visit Crowley.

He didn’t know why he did this with such regularity— Crowley was still blithely dead to the world, and as such tended to make for fairly poor conversation— but he visited like clockwork every day, mildly infuriating Madame Pomfrey in the process. He just liked— being there. Next to Crowley. Letting his thoughts spill into order, centering him in the same quiet way that tending to the tentaculas had used to.

Today, he’d gone up just at the start of lunch, and was standing by Crowley’s bedside—Madame Pomfrey didn’t provide chairs, as she was afraid it would encourage visitors. And he couldn’t have possibly said why, but he’d pulled off his own spectacles, and, pointedly ignoring the sudden fuzziness that the world resolved into, pulled on Crowley’s sunglasses instead, trying to gauge how his friend saw the world. The sunglasses were well-made, with an oddly solid heft to them, smooth and surprisingly cool in Aziraphale’s hands, and perched steadily on the end of his nose. Aziraphale blinked owlishly. The world through them was markedly dimmer, the colours washed out, somehow, filtered, but not in a bad way— quieter, almost. Easier to deal with.  It was also, Aziraphale had noted with some interest, magnified slightly, though not quite to the standards of Aziraphale’s own abysmal eyesight, the consequence of a mixture of poor genetics and a penchant for reading by dim light. So there was more than an aesthetic reason for the sunglasses, then. This momentarily piqued Aziraphale’s old interest in Crowley’s eyes, and then he looked over at the slack face of his friend and instantly felt bad about it. Still, though. It was another facet of the great whirlwind that was Crowley, a tiny piece that added up to the brilliant, confusing, and still depressingly unconscious whole. Aziraphale reckoned he could have looked directly at the sun with them on.

Aziraphale heard footsteps clatter down the entrance to the hospital wings, and quickly wrenched off the sunglasses, carefully folding them up and putting them back in their spot on Crowley’s bedside table before hurriedly pulling his own glasses out of his robe pocket and awkwardly shoving them back on his face, scuffing a slight smudge off the left lens with his sleeve as he did so. He peered behind him, fully expecting it to be Madame Pomfrey, presumably on her way to kick him out, but to his surprise, he caught sight of two hulking, heavyset figures instead, making their way lazily towards him and Crowley. They looked vaguely familiar, and suddenly it hit him— Crowley had pointed them out at dinner that first week. His cousins— Hastur, he seemed to recall, and was it— _Ligur_? Aziraphale had his own personal issues with his name, but he supposed Ligur, of all things, was markedly worse.

He watched the two of them approach with mild suspicion— Crowley hadn’t seemed overly fond of them, but then, Aziraphale supposed he couldn’t blame him. Although Aziraphale himself was an only child, he had a seemingly endless horde of cousins, a fact that made his parents remarkably happy, because it gave them an endless amount of people to compare Aziraphale to— he couldn’t go five minutes without hearing about how Michael was taking thirteen GCSEs, or about Perfect Bloody Gabriel, who was now off studying Classics at Cambridge. These two didn’t particularly look like annoyingly impeccable role models, however— not by the high standards of Aziraphale’s parents, at any rate. They looked almost thuggish, with close-cropped hair and deep-set eyes, and Crowley had said something about them redoing a year, hadn’t he? This was a threat that got bandied about Hogwarts with a remarkable frequency, but Aziraphale had never met anyone it had actually applied to before.

The two Slytherins advanced closer to the bed, pace firm and almost businesslike. The slightly bigger and slightly uglier one (although not but much) skidded to a stop when he saw Aziraphale, mouth splitting into a distinctly unpleasant grin, exposing a mess of teeth that were truly a testament to the travesty of the British dental system, although based off what he’d heard from Crowley, these two weren’t exactly queuing up to use anything nearly as muggle-saturated as the NHS.

“ _Hello_ ,” he said, his accent twanging across the word and stretching it out in a way that didn’t quite sit right with Aziraphale, who blinked, mildly disconcerted, but did his level best to remain polite.

“Hello,” he replied, slightly stiffly. “You’d be Crowley’s cousins then, I suppose?”

The larger one inclined his head.

“That we are,” he said easily. “‘M Hastur, and this here is Ligur.” The other boy— Ligur— gave Aziraphale a hungry grin.

“What I wanna know is, who are _you_? Been seeing you around a lot with Craw— _Crowley_ lately.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow ever so slightly. There was something distinctly odd about these two, their intense scrutiny, the smiles that clearly had no warmth behind them.

“Yes. Well. I’m Aziraphale—me and Crowley are—we’re doing that Herbology project together, you know, and I suppose we’ve sort of become friends.”

Hastur nodded sagely.

“You close?”

Aziraphale blinked. Something about the question felt distinctly leading, and he didn’t appreciate it.

“Well, relatively, I suppose… I mean, I haven’t known Crowley for very long yet.”

“But you’re visiting him, an’ all,” Ligur pointed out. “By yourself.”

“Well, I— look, is this going somewhere?” Aziraphale asked. He wasn’t always the best at understanding all the nuances of a conversation, as Anathema would happily point out, only these two were roughly as subtle as a brick wall.

Hastur shook his head cheerfully.

“Not particularly,” he said, hacking the second word up into its syllables. “Just interested in the wellbeing of my _dear_ cousin, like. Speaking of…” he pushed past Aziraphale, rather rudely, the Ravenclaw thought, and went over to peer down at Crowley, letting out a low whistle as he did so.

“Dun’t look too good, does he?” Ligur asked helpfully. A dim but fairly self-righteous well of irritation was beginning to build up in the back of Aziraphale’s mind.

“Well,” he replied tetchily, “I don’t think you’d look too much better, in the same situation.” Ligur’s face twisted into a sneering grin.

“ _Oooh._ That’s me told, then.”

Aziraphale glared slightly, and then looked over at Crowley, and shot his friend a silent apology for having to live with these two.

Hastur gave Crowley a flat, dismissive look, and then swivelled his dark shark’s eyes back up to meet Aziraphale’s without showing so much as a flicker of concern for his apparently _dear cousin._

“What’s your last name, then?”

Aziraphale knew, with a deep sinking certainty, exactly where this was going. Then again, it wasn’t, he decided bitterly, as though he cared a great deal about the opinions of these two louts.

He didn’t want to, anyway. Which was, he realised, as he felt a hot flush of embarrassment rise in his cheeks and hated himself for it, not quite the same thing.

“Douglass,” he said, short and clipped, and stared with flat resentment at the self-satisfied grin that crept over Hastur’s face at this.

“Douglass…” Hastur repeated, looking over at Ligur in mock bafflement. “That’s not a wizarding name, is it? ‘Leastways, it’s not one of the _proper_ ones, if you catch my drift.”

“No,” said Aziraphale, voice as monotone and uninterested as he could make it, “it isn’t.”  

Hastur nodded, mock-thoughtfully.

“Just so we all know where we stand.”

Aziraphale eyed him with quiet distaste.

“Quite.” _Oh, come on, you great clod, just say it._ He’d sort of gotten used to it, by now. The states and sneers that he’d get every once in a while, once someone figured out that he was from a muggle family. And he knew, really, that he wasn’t any lesser for it— his grades, as much as he toiled over them, proved that well enough. But even so— it was never nice, to see that familiar look, half pity, half— almost _revulsion_ , often— to feel that sick jolt in his stomach every single time. The realisation that they were still stuck in the 1950s, apparently. The simultaneous need to stand up and prove himself and the deep knowledge that doing anything of the sort would be incredibly, incredibly stupid.

And what he hated most of all was when he looked at his parents and cousins and all their hopes and plans for the future, and how stubbornly superior he felt a lot of the time, how magic just felt logically, wonderfully _better_ to him, and wondered just how different he was from, say, Hastur.

Ligur poked at Crowley’s shoulder, trying to see if this had any effect. It didn’t. He tried again, and just as the sixth-year had started to look at Crowley’s bandaged arm with slightly too much interest, Aziraphale decided that he’d had about enough of this.

“Look,” said Aziraphale slowly, doing his level best to remain civil, “why are the two of you actually _here_?”

Hastur blinked slowly, deliberately, the movement only emphasising the slick wet shine to those black eyes.

“We told you. We’re visiting Crowley. Our cousin, yeah?” he added slowly, in case Aziraphale was completely thick.

“Yes, but—oh, look, you can’t be _that_ worried about him— you’re three days late, for one, _you’ve_ barely looked at him, and—“ Aziraphale wheeled round to face Ligur, eyes blazing, and the Slytherin let go of Crowely’s arm rather guilty. “He’s not a bloody rag doll! And you’re both just— just—“ Aziraphale could feel the heat rising to his face, quite unsure where he was going with this, or what on Earth had possessed him to suddenly start having a go, quite loudly, at two really rather large Slytherins who were at least two years older than he was.  
At the very least, it was likely to attract Madame Pomfrey’s attention and get them all kicked out of the hospital wing. At most… there was a dull glint in Hastur’s eyes that Aziraphale really did not like the look of. He gazed coolly at the Ravenclaw, in a considering manner, and behind him, Ligur’s mouth pulled into a rictus smile.

“And what,” Hastur began slowly, deliberately, “makes you think that you know _shit_ about us, you fat fucking mudblood?” He almost spat the words out, deploying each harsh sound with savage enjoyment.

Aziraphale knew, with dread certainty, that he had to keep himself absolutely calm and composed, because this situation was rapidly getting rather out of hand. He felt almost like laughing. This was just going swimmingly, wasn’t it? Aziraphale had always assumed that he would never meet anyone he hated quite as much as Gabriel, and yet, Hastur seemed remarkably determined to prove him wrong.

Aziraphale had heard the word _mudblood_ being bandied around several times throughout the years, but usually in a general sort of way, a big group of which he was a part, yes, but never— directed at him like that. Spat down at him, as though he were vermin. _I don’t actually have to put up with this_ , came the sudden thought. _I could just leave, go down to lunch._ And yet somehow, he was loath to go. He knew it was incredibly, incredibly stupid— Crowley was still passed out, Madame Pomfrey would certainly be back at any moment, and besides, Crowley had grown up with these two. He was, somehow, probably far better equipped to deal with the situation than Aziraphale was. And yet. And yet Aziraphale deeply, instinctively did not want to leave Crowley alone with them. And that meant, unfortunately, standing his ground. Aziraphale crossed his arms over his shoulder and gave Hastur his iciest glare.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“Look,” he said, slowly, “you can like me, or you can not like me, and to be perfectly honest I don’t particularly give a damn one way or the other. The thing is,” Aziraphale said, pausing for a second to draw breath and to figure out what, exactly, the thing actually was, “the thing is, I would very much appreciate it if you would make up your mind on the matter based on my own merits, rather than whatever attributes my parents may or may not have, because I, for one, fail to see their relevance to this conversation.”

This was a relatively long speech, and Aziraphale was feeling quite proud of himself for it, until he noticed that shark’s smile still plastered on Hastur’s face.

“Oh, I like you, I think,” the Slytherin said slowly, smile a distinctly unfriendly thing. “You’ve got balls. Could teach Crawly a thing or two, to be honest.”

 _Crawly?_ Aziraphale thought vaguely, but decided to file that particular question away for a later date, when his heart wasn’t threatening to jump out of his chest.

Ligur rolled his eyes. He looked slightly bored, apparently having given up on poking at Crowley for the sake of it, a sentiment Aziraphale eminently approved of.

“Lovely. The two of ‘em can neck on and learn about the world an’ all that shit, only right this very moment, I’m hungry, right, and Crowley ain’t doing anything, even when you poke him.” the shorter boy turned his still not-inconsiderable girth towards Aziraphale. “And no offence or anything,” he added, in a tone that strongly implied that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was liable to be extremely offensive, “but you can piss off with all your fancy words and shit, yeah? It dun’t change what you are, mudblood.”

“What a charming philosophy,” Aziraphale replied through gritted teeth. “But in a way, I suppose I sort of agree. Crowley isn’t moving, there’s nothing for you here, so why don’t you just leave?”

Hastur sneered in a conversational sort of way.

“Cause we’re busy bothering you, of course.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply— he wasn’t quite sure with what yet, but presumably something stupid, as his brain didn’t seem to have caught up with his mouth just yet. And then, distantly, he heard the distinct click of shoes on the smooth, lacquered floor of the hospital wing, and breathed a small sigh of relief. He had never been quite so delighted to be kicked out of somewhere before.

And indeed, when Madame Pomfrey came close enough to catch sight of all three of them, Aziraphale could almost feel the irritation rolling off her, and it was all he could do to suppress a smug grin.

“Three of you at once— making a racket loud enough to raise the dead— oh, I don’t care if he’s unconscious, Mr Douglass, you’re still undoubtedly disturbing him—“ she powered on, past the space where Aziraphale usually would have interjected— “OUT, all of you.”

And out they went, Hastur and Ligur in sullen silence, and Aziraphale feeling mildly as though he’d won, at least for now.

It would be a small while before he realised that he had not, in fact, won at anything. But then, hindsight was such a terrible luxury.

 

The next day, as Aziraphale made his slow way up to the hospital wing, he prayed furtively that Hastur and Ligur wouldn’t be there, because he simply didn’t have the energy for that, not after having sat through yet another miserably long DADA lesson that morning and coming to the depressing realisation that he was, in fact, going to have to sit a practical exam on the subject, after having spent a solid year reading through the textbook— the Slinkhard book certainly seemed as though it had enough chapters. And yet, when he finally pushed open the double doors, mildly out of breath— there really were an unreasonably large amount of stairs involved in navigating one’s way around Hogwarts— it was Madame Pomfrey herself who was blocking his way in, standing in such a way that he couldn’t even catch a glimpse of Crowley.

“He’s awake,” she told him curtly, and Aziraphale felt his heart perform an extremely complicated sort of jump-skip maneuver it had most definitely not been designed to carry out.

“ _But_ ,” Madame Pomfrey added, sternly, “he isn’t quite— back to himself yet. I had to give him another potion, and it has some, ah, side effects. What he needs, now more than ever,” she stopped to fix Aziraphale with a pointed stare, “is some _rest.”_

Aziraphale stared desperately.

“Oh— but could I at least—“ he began, quite incoherently. “It’s been so long, and—“

Madame Pomfrey sighed.

“You can have five minutes. And not a second longer, is that understood?”

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. Five minutes of conversation with Crowley was more than he’d had in almost a whole school week. He made his way down to Crowley’s bed, the journey seeming to take twice as long as usual, face creasing into a smile as he caught sight of his friend.

Crowley was slumped back against a veritable mountain of pillows, hair dishevelled and sunglasses back on in all their familiar void-like glory, slightly crooked in a way that desperately made Aziraphale want to reach out and adjust them. There was a distinctly dazed look to his face, his mouth parted ever so slightly, and he didn’t seem to have quite regained all his usual jittery restlessness yet, fingers still and slack against the bright white of the bedspread. But— it was _Crowley_ , awake, finally, himself again, and Aziraphale felt something warm and fluttery course through him, something he would have passed off for relief had it not been for the vague tension that still thrummed through him.

When Crowley caught sight of him, his face melted into a bright, if somewhat fuzzy, smile, and Aziraphale wished desperately for a camera, for something to capture this wonderfully earnest disarray. To see Crowley smile like that at him again and again.

It was terribly good to have him back.

“Assssi— Azz— _angel_ ,” Crowley beamed up at him, the slight slur that clung to his voice elongating his S-sounds into almost a hiss. “‘S good— you _saved_ me. Madame Pomfrey told me.”

Aziraphale could feel the heat beginning to rise in his cheeks. Ah. So Crowley might be awake, then, but he certainly wasn’t entirely lucid just yet.

“Well. Er. Not really. It was more of a case of right place, right time, really, or right place wrong time, should I say— you were in the greenhouse all night, you know.”

Crowley did something vague and slightly jerky with his shoulders that Aziraphale thought might have been intended as a shrug.

“But I _don’t_ know,” he said plaintively, and then continued, perfectly cheerful, “was a bit passsed out at the time, an’ all.”

Aziraphale decided to press forward, feeling that he was, at least, getting semi-coherent answers.

“I mean— do you remember anything about what happened, or—“

Crowley scrunched up his face thoughtfully.

“Nuh. Not really. ‘S all kind of— fuzzy. And _far_ ,” he said, an odd stress on the last word.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, and then asked the question he probably should have led with in the first place. “Crowley— are you all right? I mean, how are you feeling?”

“‘M not feeling _anything_ at the moment,” Crowley replied with an unnerving amount of happiness. “That’sss good,” he added helpfully, catching sight of the baffled, half-amused, half-concerned look on Aziraphale’s face. “Cause I _was_ , you know, when I first woke up, and it _hurt_ , and then Madame Pomfrey gave me a potion, and now…” he spread his arms, splayed his fingers wide. “‘S _quiet._ Inside of me. Like sleeping,” he said, cocking his head to the side and considering this for a moment, “only not.”

Aziraphale felt distinctly awkward, standing over Crowley, not particularly sure what to do with his hands— he’d grown rather used to being the shorter of the two, after all— and came over to perch on the edge of Crowley’s bed.

“Your cousins came over to visit yesterday, you know,” he said, as lightly as he could manage.

“Oh, _them_ ,” said Crowley dismissively. “Bastardsss.”

The affirmation made Aziraphale happier than it probably should have.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, and then, with no warning at all, Crowley’s spindly hand suddenly shot out and clamped itself over Aziraphale’s, warm and solid and with a surprisingly firm grip, considering. Aziraphale blinked.

“Crowley, what on _Earth_ —“

“You have very nice hair,” Crowley said, voice deadly serious. “All the _colours._ ”

Aziraphale just sort of gaped. Perhaps Crowley was slightly less conscious than he’d previously thought.

“I— well, thank you, I suppose, but _why—_ “

“An’ your eyes. You have very nice eyes, too,” Crowley added earnestly. “Like the ocean.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow.

“My eyes are _brown_ , Crowley.”

Crowley hoisted himself a few inches upwards.

“I know, ‘m not _daft_. ‘S just. They’re _deep_ , you know?”

Aziraphale most certainly did _not_ know.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he said, desperately unsure of where this was going. “Really, now— _“_ Aziraphale didn’t have the foggiest clue of how on Earth he was meant to respond to _that_ , but there was an expectant sort of look on Crowley’s face, and it must have been almost five minutes now. Madame Pomfrey would be here to kick him out soon enough, and— and he couldn’t just leave it at that, could he? He scrambled to think for some sort of vaguely complimentary statement.

“Well, I suppose you, ah, have a very nice… face,” Aziraphale said finally, feeling his cheeks flare and hoping desperately that whatever painkiller Crowley was currently on would somehow erase this fairly terrible statement from the other boy’s memory. But for now, anyway, Crowley beamed up at him, a soft, blurred smile, and Aziraphale became aware of the nagging edge of a thought, the shape of an idea he couldn’t quite reach…

And then Madame Pomfrey bustled over and brusquely ordered him out, her words quite jolting the thought out of his head, and Aziraphale extracted his hand from Crowley’s with some small difficulty, offering his friend a quick smile before he finally left, quite reluctantly, with Madame Pomfrey’s eyes boring into the back of his skull, feeling distinctly strange and doing his best not to look back at Crowley.

Which he did anyway, of course, giving his friend a half-wave and a small smile as he reached the double doors, chest aching slightly at the sprawled, surprisingly small-looking figure, alone in the sea of beds.

His hand felt oddly cold, now, lonely almost, the phantom feel of Crowley’s slender fingers still ghosting against it. Aziraphale slipped out of the doors, on his way to lunch, a smile playing over his lips as he realised he’d be able to tell Newt and Anathema something _good_ , for once. They’d undoubtedly be back soon, all three of them.

But there was still something nagging at him, the half-formed idea that had vanished when Madame Pomfrey had come over, the barest outline of a realisation…

Well. It’d come back to him soon enough, without a doubt. And it couldn’t have been anything too important, anyway.

Aziraphale nodded to himself, shouldered his satchel a little higher, and then made his way to lunch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've realised i've now read harry potter and the philosopher's stone in 5 languages what the fuckk since when do i know how to read


	26. Chapter 26

The potion Madame Pomfrey had given Crowley had started to wear off by early evening, which was terrible, because his arm _hurt—_ it was surprisingly itchy, as well, and it had taken a fair bit of willpower on Crowley’s behalf to stop himself from grabbing his quill and just digging in.

And his suddenly remarkably clearer head was also terrible, because Crowley was finally beginning to realise just what he’d said to Aziraphale that afternoon, and had therefore quite sensibly, he thought, come to the logical conclusion that the only viable solution here was to run off into the forbidden forest, where he would start a new life with the centaurs. Or something.

God. Aziraphale, or perhaps more accurately Crowely’s newly-realised feelings for Aziraphale, was a topic Crowley would happily pass out for another three days for in order to stop having to think about, this newfound, terribly persistent awareness, the words that thrummed at the back of his throat. Only he knew he couldn’t do that, either, because a pile roughly the size of Mount Everest of homework had already piled up for him, and he was also depressingly aware of how hard he was going to have to work in order to catch up with everything he’d missed in the last three and a bit days. Which was honestly just unfair— Snape seemed to have decided that this was an absolutely brilliant week to cover the entirety of the potions O.W.L.s course, judging by the sheer volume of work he’d left Crowley.

Crowley sighed and reached for it, pointedly ignoring the twinge of pain that this sent racing down his arm. He had to start sometime, and he didn’t particularly have anything better to be doing at the moment, other than stewing in his own misery.

_You have very nice eyes, too. Like the ocean.”_

Crowley cringed slightly at the memory as he tapped his quill against his frustratingly blank parchment. Confined to a bed as he was under the very strict instructions of Madame Pomfrey, he was using the bloody Slinkhard textbook as a makeshift desk, which was, he thought to himself, quite possibly the first time the book had ever actually aided in anyone’s education.

Potions. Yes. Right. The scratch of the quill felt awkwardly loud in the oppressive quiet of the hospital wing, which Crowley was already sick of, despite having only spent a few (conscious) hours there. It was very… _white_ , Crowley thought, sterile and lifeless and full of empty beds made up with brutal precision, quiet in a way that was meant to be restful but honestly just came off as a bit creepy.

When the double doors to the hospital wing slid open, Crowley welcomed the distraction, even if it probably was just Madame Pomfrey coming to tell him off for something. When he caught sight of Newt’s familiar sheepish smile, Crowley broke into a relieved grin.

“Thank fuck you’re here,” Crowley said cheerfully as Newt approached his bed with a wary look on his pale face. “I was so bored I was about to start doing my potions homework.”

Newt shot him a mildly wary glance.

“You still, y’know…” he waved a hand expressively. “Off your tits?”

Crowley snorted, before shaking his head.

“It’s wearing off now, more’s the pity. But you know, it was nice while it lasted, and everything.”

It took a few long moments for Crowley to grasp the full significance of Newt’s statement, and then his eyes widened, safely hidden by his sunglasses. “Did Aziraphale mention that? What did he, uh, say about me?” Crowley asked, aiming for casual and missing by a couple thousand miles.

“Are we _already_ on Aziraphale?” Newt asked, sounding a bit put out, and Crowley blinked, confused as to what Newt was getting at and also mildly terrified that it meant that Newt, Aziraphale, and potentially Hogwarts as a whole were now glaringly aware of his feelings for Aziraphale.

“What?” he finally replied, a bit foggily, and wondered vaguely if the effects of that painkilling potion hadn’t lasted a bit longer than he’d realised.

“Nothing,” said Newt hurriedly, which did absolutely nothing to dispel Crowley’s suspicions, and then continued on, forcing a casual, gamey sort of grin back onto his face.

“Anyway. Before you went off to water the plants, didn’t you _specifically_ tell me to be alive when you got back? And then you pull this shit?”

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” Crowley said, mock-seriously, and when Newt didn’t immediately seem to catch on, he quickly added, “you know. ‘Cause it _was_ yesterday for me, me having been passed out since then, and everything.”

Newt still didn’t seem to find this as hysterically funny as Crowley did, and he felt mildly affronted by this.

“How are you feeling, anyway?” Newt finally asked, and there was still an odd, tense undertone to his voice that Crowley couldn’t help but pick up on.

“Would you believe me if I said tired?” Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. Hungry, more than anything else. And I’m starting to regain feeling in my arm and it’s, uh. Less than ideal.”

Newt winced sympathetically, and hoisted himself up onto the bed next to Crowley with familiar ease. He looked over at the veritable mountain of parchment next to Crowley’s bed with very real horror.

“Is that all the work you’ve got to do? That’s bloody ridiculous, we really haven’t gotten that much done in the last few days.”

“Grim, isn’t it?” Crowley said glumly. “And Madame Pomfrey said she probably won’t let me out until the end of the week, so it’s just going to keep piling up.” He shook his head wearily. “I dunno, maybe I’ll ask Aziraphale if I can borrow his notes, or something.”

“Do you _have_ to keep bringing him up?” Newt asked wretchedly, and Crowley just sort of stared at him, marginally more confused than before.

“Wha— did something happen? I thought you liked Aziraphale.” Crowley hoped, very desperately— but didn’t pray— that this wasn’t about him, that Aziraphale hadn’t uncovered Crowley’s tangled mess of feelings just yet.

Although Crowley supposed he couldn’t exactly blame Aziraphale if he had figured it out— Crowley hadn’t exactly been subtle.

Newt picked at the duvet, and winced when his nails somehow managed to catch at a stray thread, creating a small hole.

“I do like Aziraphale— I mean, he’s all right. It’s just, _you_ clearly like him as well. A lot more than you like me.” Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but Newt ploughed onwards, determined. “And— and you assume that I’m only here for a laugh, and you can’t even imagine that I might sort of, you know, have actually been worried about you or anything, and you just—“ Newt let out a low, hissing breath, his shoulders deflating as he did so. “I dunno. I was trying to be okay with it, and I kind of figured— or hoped— that maybe me and Anathema would hang out more, or something, but you haven’t seen her these past few days, she’s got this huge crush on this Ravenclaw girl now, and…” Newt shrugged miserably, voice cracking ever so slightly. “I guess I just don’t really want to end up on my own. Sorry.”

Crowley dragged himself as upright as he could manage, staring at his friend. He could, now that Newt had put it like that, see exactly where his friend was coming from, and yeah, he supposed he did sort of feel bad about it, but all the same, he thought, terrifying as the concept was, that he’d better clarify a few things rather quickly.

“Newt,” he said, trying to keep his voice as calm and reassuring as possible, “I’m not going to replace you with Aziraphale. I promise.”

Newt opened his mouth to protest, but Crowley had decided that if he was going to do this, he was bloody well going to do it quickly. Like ripping off a plaster.

“I’m going to tell you something,” Crowley began slowly, “and if you tell anyone else, _especially_ Aziraphale, I will—“ he broke off for a moment, trying to think of an adequate threat. “I will _eat your cat._ ”

Newt blinked.

“You can try,” he said, but he already sounded marginally less upset than he’d been a few moments ago. “I reckon he’d claw your bloody face off, though.” Newt’s cat was a seemingly immortal mangy bastard his parents had long ago named Dick Turpin, on account of him looking like he’d happily rob you for all you were worth, and then probably kill you too, for good measure. The name was meant to provoke a good-natured historical discussion. It usually just got a snigger from Crowley, because it had the word ‘dick’ in it, and some things simply should not be put in front of teenage boys. He decided to push on.

“Yes. Well. The thing is.” he took a deep breath. “The thing is, I might sort of like Aziraphale. As in, _like_ -like him,” he added, seeing the confusion on Newt’s face, and feeling his own go very hot indeed.

“As in—“ started Newt, still looking mildly befuddled, and Crowley sighed and tried again.

“I have a crush on Aziraphale, all right? Do you need me to draw a fucking diagram for you?”

Newt blinked.

“Ah. Right,” he said, slowly. “Can you just sort of… give me a moment to process that?”

Crowley nodded, torn between amusement and worry. There was a long, tense beat of silence, and then Newt turned to face him with a mildly accusatory look on his face.

“You never told me you were gay,” he said, and now it was Crowley’s turn to stare at him in confusion.

“Yes I did,” he said. Newt shook his head.

“You definitely didn’t. I would remember.”

Crowley tilted his head to the side.

“I mean, I never made, like, a grand statement, or anything, but— I just kind of assumed you knew.”

Newt folded his arms stubbornly over his chest, but the conversation had shifted from confrontational to something easier, more familiar.

“How the bloody hell was I supposed to pick that one up, Crowley? Legilimencey?”

Crowley gave Newt a tired sort of stare.

“D’you not remember that ridiculous crush I had on Harry Potter back in third year that lasted for about a week? I really wasn’t subtle, you were begging me to shut up about it…”

Newt looked at Crowley with an almost picturesque expression of befuddlement on his face, mouth curved into a little _O_ of shock.

“That was a _crush_? I just thought that was like, a weirdly intense hero-worship phase, or something.”

“I was writing _poetry_ , Newt, what the bloody hell else could it have been?”

There was another awkward silence, and then, quite suddenly, Newt started to laugh, and Crowley couldn’t help joining in, and within a matter of moments, the pair of them had completely lost it.

“I can’t believe—“ Crowley managed, after a while.

“ _Poetry_ ,” Newt choked out. “D’you still have any of it?”

Crowley thought for a second, and then grimaced.

“Shit, I think I do… I’ll have to burn that the second I get out of here, then.”

He watched in mounting horror as a slow grin spread over Newt’s face, and tried for some damage control. “Uh. I mean. Not that I’d be stupid enough to keep that anywhere in Hogwarts, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Newt, a positively _malevolent_ look on his face.

They were quiet for a few seconds, Crowley fiddling with the bedspread while he tried to sort out just what he was going to say next. Eventually, he sighed and turned to face his friend.

“I’m— I’m really not gonna ditch you though, yeah? And if you ever feel like I am…” he let out a weary sigh. “Well, I suppose you can always just blackmail me with some of that poetry.”

Newt laughed, and then his expression slowly faded into something slightly more thoughtful, the creases around his mouth tugging at his freckles.

“Are you going to tell Aziraphale?”

Crowley shot him a look of sheer horror.

“I— course not, are you mad?”

Newt gave him a funny sort of look.

“Well, why not? It’s better to just get it over with, I reckon. I mean, I asked Anathema out, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and look how well that turned out.”

Crowley pushed his hair back out of his face. He didn’t, actually, if he was honest, have a very good reason for not just telling Aziraphale, but every fibre of his being was categorically against it, and that in itself, he had decided, was probably reason enough.

“That’s because she’s gay, though!” Newt protested. “Different kettle of fish altogether.”

“Well, exactly,” Crowley pointed out. “Chances are, statistically, that Aziraphale _isn’t._ And even if he is, by some miracle, that still doesn’t mean he likes _me_.”

Newt considered this for a moment.

“I reckon he probably is gay, you know. He sort of seems like he would be.”

Crowley shot Newt a flat stare.

“Right, after the talk we’ve just had, yeah, you’ll forgive me if I don’t have the highest confidence in your gaydar, Newt.”

Newt snorted, and, for a few merciful seconds, went quiet.

“You’d make a cute couple, you know,” he said finally, and Crowley reached out to give him a shove with his good arm. Newt jostled him back, but— gently. It made Crowley feel mildly like some sort of geriatric old lady.

“You _should_ tell him, though,” Newt continued. “It’s better to just let things off your chest. Otherwise, it’ll all just build up and up and up…”

Crowley shot him an anguished look.

“You’re really not getting it. I _can’t.”_

Newt sat up purposefully.

“Yeah, you can. Look, it’ll be awkward, and embarrassing, but at the end of the day— you’ll have your answer, and no matter what happens, you’ll be able to move forward. Seriously.”

Crowley picked at his fingernails.

“But— but if he doesn’t like me back, right, it’ll be awful, and it’ll wreck our friendship, probably, and I’ll still have to work with him in Herbology, right, and that’d be _grim_ , and no matter what happens, my cousins’ll give me shit for it, and—“ Crowley paused to draw breath for the first time in a fairly long while, and Newt took the opportunity to raise a hand and cut him off.

“Look. Crowley— and I’m saying this as your best friend— you need to get the fuck over yourself, mate.”

Crowley let out a shaky laugh.

“Fair enough, I suppose.” He did his best to smile, and finally, with the air of someone putting on his seatbelt after already having driven off a cliff, he did his level best to change the subject. “Has anything else interesting happened in the last few days, by the way?”

Newt looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged.

“I dunno. Not much. Umbridge looks quite sad without you, I think she misses having someone to glare at.”

“Send her my love,” said Crowley dryly, looking at the faint silver tracing the back of his wrist and marvelling at the fact that he’d managed to fuck up both arms in a matter of short weeks. Newt grinned.

“Will do. Maybe you can write her some poetry, too?” he asked, faux-innocent, and Crowley grabbed the helpfully-positioned Slinkhard book—twice in one day it had come in handy, incredible— and whacked Newt with it, the pair of them descending back into borderline hysterical giggles.

When Newt was, unsurprisingly, kicked out by Madame Pomfrey shortly after this, he left with a promise to wrangle some notes out of Anathema and Aziraphale to help Crowley with all his homework, and a solemn mission to try and find that poetry. After he’d gone, Crowley sagged back onto his pillows, feeling distinctly strange.

He’d enjoyed talking with Newt, and laughing about stupid things, and the whole conversation had left him feeling much lighter. And it had been good to tell Newt about his feelings for Aziraphale, to drag them out and examine them properly, and the fact that Newt had acknowledged them as real, proper things—had thought he and Aziraphale would make a _cute couple_ , a concept roughly as likely to happen as Crowley setting foot on the moon, but still— it made him feel slightly less bonkers, grounded him somehow. Like this was— an okay thing to feel, after all.

Not that he was going to tell Aziraphale, though. Not particularly for any of the fancy reasons he’d garbled at Newt— although those played a part too, undoubtedly, but mainly because he, Anthony J. Crowley, was a miserable bloody coward. And the thought of being rejected by Aziraphale, of polite, awkward apology weaving its way over the other boy’s face— it scared him one Hell of a lot.

_A coward, and a selfish bastard too,_ Crowley’s brain reminded him helpfully, and he grimaced up at the ceiling.

Right. That too. Crowley was reminded uncomfortably of the very real hurt on Newt’s face, and his insides twisted unpleasantly. He’d been so caught up in Aziraphale, and all the brilliant newness of him, that he really had neglected Newt a fair bit. _And you even managed to twist a conversation about that into being about Aziraphale, didn’t you?_

This was exactly why Crowley resented being stuck in the hospital wing. Left alone with only his stupid bloody thoughts for company, he quickly started to spiral downwards into abject misery. He needed something to _do_ , something to fill his brain with, and he looked dejectedly at his potions homework, supposing that that would have to do. He picked up his handy contraption of textbook and parchment, placed his ink pot on what little empty space was left of his small bedside table, and began.

And then sighed. It was stupidly dull work, and, despite his very best efforts, he kept sort of— drifting away from it, staring vaguely off into nothingness. And _thinking._

Well, he could start paying a bit more attention to just how he was spending his time, now, he supposed, make sure he wasn’t leaving Newt on his own too often. That was an easy enough fix, even if he did still sort of feel quite bad about the whole thing. But he could deal with that.

But the Aziraphale thing. The bloody Aziraphale thing. He’d been planning on just approaching it with the tried-and-tested Crowley method of blatant denial, but… well. That hadn’t been working out all too well for him, so far. And Newt knew about it now, and would undoubtedly go on about it non-stop.

Crowley sighed and looked at the big clock set into the far wall. Half six, but the sun had set already, and it felt later than it was. To Crowley, anyway, who was fairly sure the last few days had messed with his internal body clock a fair bit. With the desperate hope of just getting his brain to _shut up_ for a bit, Crowley replaced the lid onto his ink pot, shoved his books and papers onto the nightstand, and, knowing full well that this was the literal most useless thing he could be doing with his time, rolled over and went to sleep.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im well aware that these updates are getting slower and slower and im sorry, school's being a bit of a nightmare at the mo but it's half term next week so i'll finally have some free time again  
> thanks so much for reading as ever xx


	27. Chapter 27

It was Friday evening, the great hall ceiling a cold, cloudy blue-black that promised rain soon. If there was one thing Hogwarts did well, Aziraphale mused, it was ambiance— the warm glow of a thousand softly flickering candles staved off the autumn chill, and created an easy, remarkably cozy atmosphere around the softly chattering students, wrapped in their thick black robes.

He turned his attention back to Newt and Anathema, sat across from him at what had quickly become their usual spots, right at the end of the Hufflepuff table, and forced himself to relax into their current discussion on inter-house politics. It had been an incredibly long week, and Aziraphale could feel hungry exhaustion clinging tight to his bones— despite the fact that Crowley was awake now, and had been far more lucid the last time Aziraphale had seen him, almost back to his old self, Aziraphale couldn’t stop the faint current of worry from coursing through his nerves. And although he’d felt as though the four of them were becoming a proper, tight group, for the last few days— ever since Crowley had woken up, actually— Newt had been acting rather strangely around him, casting Aziraphale odd, appraising glances when he thought the Ravenclaw wasn’t watching. It bothered Aziraphale, especially because he couldn’t fathom what might have caused this sudden change in behaviour.

Maybe Aziraphale was just imagining things. What he needed, he thought wearily, was a solid weekend of nothing but sleep, but his homework and revision rendered that impossible. _Maybe I should arrange for my own accident with the tentaculas_ , he thought, and then immediately felt bad about it.

“I feel like we can look at Slytherin as a metaphor for late capitalism, if you like,” said Anathema, waving her fork expressively. Newt grinned through a mouthful of sausage.

“All right, so are all the Hufflepuffs communists then?” He wiggled his fingers dramatically at Anathema. “Cooomrade,” he drawled, in what Aziraphale could only assume was meant to be a Russian accent. She rolled her eyes warmly and batted him off.

“I mean, maybe. If you like. But look,  Slytherin’s supposed to be all about ambition and achievement, right? You do everything within your power and use cunning and cleverness, and you can achieve anything you like. Which is essentially the same model as capitalism— anyone can become successful if they knuckle down and work hard for it. But the problem is—“ she pointed her fork dramatically at Aziraphale, who laughed despite himself, “that ethos assumes that we all start on a level playing field, but we _don’t_. In Slytherin, they don’t even let you in if you’re not a pureblood. And in the real world—“ Anathema broke off suddenly, putting down her fork as her face creased into a small smile. Aziraphale followed her gaze, and felt his heart speed up slightly, thudding over itself. In the doorway to the great hall, looking a bit small and a bit lost and with a tired smile plastered on his face, stood Crowley. Aziraphale thought his own grin might split his face in two.

Crowley hurriedly made his way over to them and slid into his seat, smiling wide. Aziraphale gave him a critical look— he still looked a bit wan, and _tired_ , but Aziraphale supposed he had the whole weekend to recuperate, now, and besides, Crowley definitely looked happier than he’d been the last few days, bored and frustrated at being stuck in the hospital wing. Aziraphale could still see the edge of a white bandage poking out from underneath his sleeve.

He gave his friend a smile.

“I didn’t know you were getting out today,” he said, as Crowley began shovelling food onto his plate.

“Yeah, neither did I,” said Crowley as he skewered a few sausages with a well-positioned fork. “‘M glad to be back though, I reckon I would have gone completely insane if I’d had to stay in the hospital wing any longer…”

“Oh _no_ , you got to lie in a bed for a week and miss lessons,” said Newt, voice positively dripping with sarcasm. “Tragic.”

“Yeah, only now I’ll be trying to catch up for approximately the next five thousand years,” Crowley said plaintively. “And I just know Snape’s going to bring this up every single time I do anything wrong in potions from now on. As if my idea of good fun is getting attacked by a homicidal plant, _honestly_ …”

“Well, it’s good to have you back, anyway,” said Aziraphale warmly, and felt his heart stutter slightly as Crowley turned to look at him, stare oddly intense through his sunglasses, a small smile playing over his lips. And _again,_ Aziraphale teetered on the edge of a realisation, sure he was missing something here, but not quite sure what it was. Crowley continued to stare at him for a few more oddly long seconds, flashed him a quick grin, and then turned to face Anathema.

“So. I heard you have a crush?”

Anathema flushed and fiddled with the ends of her hair.

“And just _where_ did you get that information?” she asked, tone light but with an unmistakable icy undertone that promised trouble for whoever had been the source of this information.

Crowley made his face as innocent and guileless as he could.

“Oh, I think Newt might have mentioned it in passing…”

Newt kicked Crowley under the table with a solid thud and hissed something that sounded distinctly like ‘ _poetry_ ’.

Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Ah. That is to say. I have absolutely no idea, probably just, uh, subconsciously picked it up while I was passed out or something…”

Anathema gave him a look of flat disbelief but sighed and shook her head, releasing the tension that had squared up in her shoulders with a wry smile.

“Oh, fine. Yes, I sort of like this girl. And that is all the information you will ever have on the situation.” Anathema paused for a moment, taking a swig of pumpkin juice as she did so.

“Well. Aziraphale knows a bit more, but that’s because _he_ knows how to keep his mouth shut,” she finished, with a pointed glare in Newt’s direction.

Newt raised his hands defensively.

“I told _one_ person,” he said plaintively. “And it’s _Crowley_. I mean, we’re a group, aren’t we? And besides, who else is he going to tell?”

Crowley nodded encouragingly.

“I have literally no other friends.”

But he got it though, why Anathema might be upset. Having feelings for someone, especially when those feelings were of a less than heterosexual nature… well. It was a personal thing, who and when to share that, especially when the consequences could be so genuinely terrible. He risked a furtive glance at Aziraphale. He certainly didn’t want Newt bandying _that_ information about. He gave Anathema a sympathetic shrug, doing his best to look sincere.

“I’ll keep it to myself, don’t worry. And Newt’s not going to tell anyone else. About _anything_ ,” he said sharply, hoping Newt would get the hint, and kicked him back under the table for good measure.

“Um. Moving on,” said Newt hurriedly, clearly desperate to change the subject, “can you believe it’s almost Halloween already?”

“Time flies when you’re unconscious,” said Crowley glibly, and Aziraphale grimaced, feeling his stomach lurching awkwardly at the thought. Was the whole year going to go by this fast? Already, he was running out of time, had far too much to do in the short space of time left before exams.

“Why do we make such a big deal of Halloween, anyway?” asked Crowley, poking at a roast potato as he did so. “I mean, I get that it’s a pagan thing and all, but we just do the muggle things— the _American_ muggle things, with the pumpkins and the sweets and everything.”

“ _And_ they don’t even let us dress up,” Newt added thoughtfully. “I mean, you’d reckon some of the pureblood wankers would get a bit pissy about us just doing a discount version of a muggle holiday.”

“There must be _some_ sort of wizarding background for Halloween, though, or it wouldn’t be such a widespread phenomenon,” Aziraphale said, and Anathema nodded enthusiastically.

“Right, lots of different cultures have celebrations that centre on October 31st— like _el día_ _de los muertos_ in Mexico, for one.”

“Your Spanish pronunciation is awful,” Newt said conversationally, and Anathema bristled a little.

“A linguistics expert as well as an expert on my love life now, are we?”

Newt shrugged.

“Did Spanish in primary. Some of it stuck.”

Crowley tilted his head to the side in consideration.

“So you can remember year six Spanish but not last week’s potions work?”

“You’d remember it too, if you’d had bloody Drill Sergeant Marco for a teacher,” Newt groused.

“It makes you think, though,” mused Aziraphale. “With Halloween, you can at least sort of see the wizarding undertones, but what about Christmas? Why does Hogwarts celebrate that? Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

Crowley nodded.

“My uncle flatly refuses to celebrate Christmas. Calls it consumerist nonsense meant to bankrupt weak-minded muggles. I’ll bet he’s sent Dumbledore quite a few impassioned letters on the subject over the years.”

“And I’ll bet ‘muggles’ isn’t the word that he uses in them,” said Anathema darkly, and Aziraphale was reminded uncomfortably of his encounter with Hastur and Ligur. He supposed he should have a conversation with Crowley about that at some point.

Newt looked deeply thoughtful in the way that Aziraphale had quickly learnt meant that whatever he was about to come out with was going to be either absurd or wildly inappropriate, or both.

“Well. I mean. What if Jesus was a wizard?”

Aziraphale squirmed slightly. He kept his brain organised into two tidy sections: one for magic and one for religion, and he didn’t particularly like the idea of them mixing.

Anathema, however, pounced on the idea with her usual analytical eagerness.

“No, but that’s actually a very interesting theory,” she said, seemingly having warmed up a little towards Newt. “And it makes you wonder, doesn’t it— how many miracles or religious occurrences could be explained via magic.”

Crowley grinned. “Water into wine. ‘S just basic transfiguration, when you think about it.”

Aziraphale made a face. He couldn’t quite put into words _why_ he was so dead set against the idea, except that…

Except that his parents would utterly _hate_ the idea, hate the idea of their beloved Jesus being anything like— _anything like me_ , Aziraphale thought with a sudden jolt. But what if— all right, supposing for a second that Jesus _was_ a wizard, magic was magic, and even wizards didn’t quite understand where it came from, why it jumped and danced from family to family in the way that it did. What if magic came from God? What if he had been blessed, instead of being a freak? It was a rather arrogant thought, but then the whole thing was still a silly hypothetical, anyway. But somehow, it made Aziraphale feel warm, inside. A little more sure of himself.

Magic and miracles were just synonyms, after all.

He turned to face Crowley.

“Look, I, ah, actually still need to water the tentaculas. Would you like to come with me? I’d completely understand if you don’t want to, of course, although Professor Sprout has imposed some new safety regulations and things….” _You’re rambling again_ , he mentally chastised himself, and broke off rather awkwardly.

Crowley’s smile was slow and slightly hesitant, but it felt genuine.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, voice the sort of cheery that Aziraphale didn’t quite trust, and for a moment he wondered if he was being terribly selfish. “As long as you’re there to protect me, of course.”

“Your knight in shining armour, remember?” Aziraphale said, allowing the faintest trace of wry humour to slip into his voice, and Crowley fiddled with the frames of his sunglasses in a way that made Aziraphale worry he’d said the wrong thing somehow.  

Crowley looked over at Newt, with an expression on his face that Aziraphale couldn’t quite read.

“D’you mind?” he asked his friend. “If I—“

Newt gave Aziraphale another one of those odd looks, and then plastered on a smile.

“Course not. Run off with your… knight,” he brought out with some difficulty, and Aziraphale was hit with the very definite realisation that there was something going on here that he didn’t quite understand.

But Crowley stood up and smiled at him again, and Aziraphale felt something flutter, deep in the pit of his stomach. It felt a bit like hope.

 

Crowley seemed to have perked up a little as they made their way through the night-quiet corridors of Hogwarts, some of his languid twitchiness returning. It was cold, but a nice sort of cold— a lazy chill that brushed softly against Aziraphale’s skin. And they were quiet, but it was a nice sort of quiet. Companionable. Or Aziraphale hoped it was, anyway. After a while, he cleared his throat and turned to face Crowley.

“Well. How are you feeling, anyway?” he asked, wincing slightly at the worry that threaded its way into his voice. Crowley shrugged lightly.

“Oh, better now, definitely. Less, y’know, high and liable to say extremely stupid things,” he added sheepishly, pushing his hair off his face and staring down at his feet with a fixed sort of intensity. Aziraphale thought he might sort of be blushing. It was endearing, somehow, the terribly sincere self-consciousness, and he had to fight to suppress a small smile.

“And how’s your arm? It looked— painful. When I found you.” Aziraphale said, trying to bury his mess of feelings under a blanket of righteous concern.

Crowley shrugged, but this time at least seemed confident enough to make eye contact with Aziraphale— or whatever passed for eye contact with those ever-present sunglasses, anyway.

“It’s still a bit sore, but it’s alright.” Crowley let his mouth pull down into a small grimace, before it jumped back up into another one of those small, slightly ironic smiles. “Itches like mad, though.” He looked down at the floor again. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for finding me, you know.”

Aziraphale looked over at his friend, slightly puzzled.

“I— you really don’t have to thank me for that, you know— in fact, I should probably be apologising to you for not getting there sooner.” He paused, thoughtful. “And you did thank me, I think. Right after you woke up.”

Crowley made a face.

“Can we agree to just forget everything I said and did then? It was all incredibly stupid, anyway.”

Aziraphale thought of the warm, insistent press of Crowley’s hand on his, of the soft, blurry eagerness of his smile. He wasn’t quite sure he _wanted_ to forget all of that, or to admit to himself that it really hadn’t meant anything, that Crowley probably would have been equally clingy to anyone else who’d stumbled upon him at that moment. But he just smiled, and waved a hand.

“Consider it forgotten, then.”

Crowley smiled back, his relief evident.

“Well, then consider yourself officially thanked for saving my life. Did you get any house points for that, by the way?”

Aziraphale blinked.

“I, ah, don’t think I did…”

Crowley frowned slightly, a small divot appearing between the dark furrow of his eyebrows.

“Well, you bloody should have, they’ve given Potter the house cup for less than that.”

Aziraphale shot Crowley a desperate glance. It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ all the compliments and things, but they did make him feel a little awkward, and besides, he blatantly didn’t deserve them.

“I really didn’t _do_ anything, you know. I happened to find you, panicked for a bit, and then ran off to find Professor Sprout. Nothing heroic to it,” Aziraphale finished lamely, trying to keep this calm and collected.

Crowley stopped suddenly, in the middle of the corridor, robes swishing round his feet and a sudden serious expression on his face.

“Look, you don’t have to keep putting yourself down over things, yeah? I’m more thankful than you know. Honestly. And even if all you did was panic, that’s still— you still _cared_ enough to panic, and—“ Crowley broke off, not quite trusting his voice to hold or himself to avoid saying anything incriminating. He sighed, tried to steady himself, and gave Aziraphale a wobbly smile. “Come on. We’re almost at the greenhouses already.”

 

They got to the greenhouse relatively quickly, breaking into awkward half-jogs to get out of the cold as quickly as possible.

“This is how it starts,” Crowley moaned. “Cold nights become cold days become months of damp _misery_.” He half-threw himself into the greenhouse, shaking out those long, slender fingers in order to try and warm them up. Aziraphale slipped in behind him, closed the door with a soft _thud_ , and came to stand beside Crowley. The other boy still hadn’t moved, but was standing stock still, fingers outstretched.

“Déjà vu?” Aziraphale asked quietly. The words seemed to break Crowley out of his trance, and he turned to face Aziraphale with an expression of almost surprise on his face, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Kind of,” Crowley said, tilting his head to one side. “Just feels… odd, somehow. Being back here.”

“Can you remember what happened, now?” Aziraphale asked, still in that low, soft voice that didn’t quite seem to belong to him. That low, soft voice, he thought irritably, that seemed to have no regard whatsoever for his friend’s feelings or privacy, and just wanted to know every sordid detail. “You couldn’t, when you’d just woken up, but then you were, a bit, er, scattered then.”

Crowley shoved an errant strand of hair out of his face, gave the greenhouse an appraising look.

“I— kind of. It was mainly my fault, I was exhausted, and I wasn’t paying proper attention—“ he broke off, squinted at some half-foggy memory. “Wait. You said you’d met my cousins, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale nodded, unsure as to where this was going, and slightly worried about what, exactly, Hastur and Ligur’s connection to the whole debacle could be. He was sure it wasn’t anything good.

The sharp edges of Crowley’s face curved into a perfect mirror image of Aziraphale’s own nervous apprehension.

“Ah, _fuck._ They didn’t— pull anything, did they?”

Aziraphale winced and tried to come up with some sort of vaguely diplomatic way of phrasing things, but Crowley must have read something in his expression, because he sighed and looked genuinely upset.

“They always— they’re such _wankers_ —“ he looked over at Aziraphale, fiddling with the frames of his sunglasses again. “Fuck. I’m sorry you had to deal with them.”

“I’m sorry you have to live with them,” Aziraphale said, and meant it. Crowley let out a snuffly sort of laugh.

“Yeah. So am I.” He picked at his fingernails. “Sorry for going off on one. The story’s not very interesting. I bumped into them beforehand, they were utter dickheads, as per usual, and so I was distracted and tired when I got here. They—“ he jerked his head in the vague direction of the tentaculas— “looked hungry, and I _should_ have fed them, only—“ he grimaced, and Aziraphale understood. Crowley didn’t even enjoy feeding the tentaculas at the best of times. Crowley sighed. “Anyway. Next thing I knew, I had a bloody plant wrapped around my arm, I just about managed to get it off— _diffindo_ — and then I passed out relatively quickly after that. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, digesting the information, and then quite suddenly, pulled Crowley in for a hug. Crowley stiffened for a moment before relaxing into it, slender arms snaking round Aziraphale’s back and coming to rest neatly between his shoulder blades.

“Mmph,” Crowley managed. “Angel. What was that for?”

Aziraphale was wildly aware that this was stupid. He also did not care.

“I’m just— very glad you’re all right,” he said softly, gazing at how the greenhouse light played over Crowley’s hair.

Crowley pulled back awkwardly, a somewhat dopey smile playing over his face. He fumbled with his sunglasses, his hair, suddenly self-conscious again.

“I. Uh. Why don’t you teach me about those brand new safety precautions, then?”

Aziraphale escorted Crowley over to the equipment corner of the greenhouse, watched as those long, clever fingers disappeared under a sheath of dragonhide. Those fingers that had latched onto his not too long ago.

And there was that thought again, pricking at his skin, only this time Aziraphale didn’t try to push it away, but let it sit there, expanding comfortably. He looked over at Crowley, lithe and fidgety and awkward and too self-deprecating for his own good and clever and yes, _beautiful_ , and—

 _Oh_.

The thought arrived, then, in full force.

 _Oh, dear— oh,_ fuck.

He might, er, have feelings for Crowley.

Crowley picked up a watering can— their usual green one— and grinned at Aziraphale, and he felt his heart start to race, doing his utmost best to soldier on as though he hadn’t just realised that he might sort of _like_ like Crowley, as Anathema would so elegantly put it. He just had to be calm. And collected. And he'd deal with this later. 

But as they began to make their way over to the tentaculas, Aziraphale’s heart was thudding in full force. He’d never really— he’d never been much for crushes. He hadn’t even been sure of his sexuality, so he supposed that was another thing he’d have to sort through now, and this was all very bloody complicated, and at the same time— it wasn’t. It explained quite a few things, actually, placed his mental image of Crowley into a new and shining context. Aziraphale looked over at the other boy, carrying the little green watering can, and blithely unaware of Aziraphale’s inner turmoil. This was— he had no idea what he was doing. He had no idea how he was going to explain this to Crowley. _Was_ he going to tell Crowley? He looked over pensively, only to find Crowley already watching him, an expectant and politely puzzled look on that striking face. Aziraphale felt the blood rise to his cheeks— Crowley had clearly just said something, and he’d been too caught up in himself to even notice. Aziraphale smiled awkwardly, pointy and stilted. He would sort this out. He had to.

He didn’t have the foggiest idea of what he was doing, and it scared him more than he could say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i actually log onto fucking kerboodle at 2am because i couldnt for the life of me remember if it was el dia de muertos or el dia de los muertos?? yes


	28. Chapter 28

Anathema paused before she rounded the final corner to the Ravenclaw tower, and took a deep breath. She was back yet again, and this time she didn’t even have the dubious excuse of having come to visit Aziraphale—well, she knew for a fact that Aziraphale was down at the greenhouses with Crowley. But after Newt had apparently taken it upon himself to make it as widely known as possible (within their little circle, anyway) that she had a crush, she’d supposed that she’d better… live up to that, in a way.

You couldn’t very well boldly announce that you had a crush on someone in the wake of one proper conversation and a few stolen glances and half-smiles in the corridors, and then leave it at that, could you? In Anathema’s opinion, one rather had to earn the right to get to moon dramatically over someone, and currently— well, she just didn’t reckon she was doing— being _—enough_ , if that made sense.

Grown ups and teachers, more often than not, tended to refer to Anathema as sensible. It was, in their eyes anyway, one of her defining qualities. Only Anathema didn’t think she was, really. She wasn’t calm, or collected, or particularly rational in difficult situations— it was just that she quite often— closed herself off, she supposed, when things were difficult, and people tended to take this as a sort of aloof, quiet self-confidence. She was happy enough to let them do so.

No, Anathema wasn’t sensible. What she was, when it came down to it, was quite good at Getting On With Things; if there was a problem, she would usually go and face it head on, with minimal amounts of fuss. Anathema didn’t even count this as a particularly good quality, just something that stemmed from a lack of patience, and often led to some rather poorly thought-through decisions— take her initial confrontation with Crowley, for one.

But it was the only way Anathema really knew how to deal with things. And so when faced with the question of Luna Lovegood, Anathema knew that at she was going to have to deal with the issue sooner rather than later.

It wasn’t being sensible, because Anathema really had no clue what she was doing, or where this was going, and a dim voice in the back of her mind was telling her that she was being incredibly stupid. And it sure as Hell wasn’t bravery, because Anathema was fucking terrified.

Anathema read a great deal, and widely, and she was vaguely aware that approaching a potential new relationship with the same steadfast, wooden determination one used when building IKEA furniture probably didn’t make for an enthralling love story.

But Jesus, what else was she supposed to do?

 _Sensible._ No-one in their right mind would ever call Luna sensible. Luna was dreamy, and whimsical, and— and _wild._ Luna blatantly, properly didn’t give a fuck about what other people thought, and she did it in a very quiet, self-contained sort of way that Anathema was oddly drawn to— much better than the shiny veneer of control she plastered on all the time to the extent that Aziraphale— _Aziraphale—_ had looked completely shocked when she’d told him that she was nervous about things, too.

That said a lot about her, Anathema supposed. And she didn’t think she liked it very much.

But then, wasn’t that always how all of Anathema’s worst decisions began? Because she’d always think, _all right, I can’t fix everything about me, but if I can do this one thing— this one small thing— then even if it goes terribly, I’m not a coward._

And then maybe she’d be able to live with herself a little more.

Anathema wasn’t sensible. But she understood herself and her motivations fairly well, or at least thought that she did.

Not that any of that knowledge ever helped stop her from doing utterly stupid things, of course. But it was good to know, all the same.

Going to talk to Luna was probably the most nervous she’d ever been, though. Which probably said something about how skewed her priorities were, but there you had it, anyway. Her heart had thudded relentlessly all the way up to the Ravenclaw tower, and she was constantly switching between wiping her clammy palms on her robes and fiddling with the ends of her hair, a thing she knew perfectly well she did when she was nervous. _If you do this_ , she told herself sternly, _then you’ll have an answer, one way or another. If not, you’ll always be stuck with miserable what-might-have-beens, and however shit you feel now, you’ll feel worse, with an added coating of self-loathing._

People always said that was bravery, didn’t they—finding something they were scared of, and doing it anyway. Was that confidence? Was that the best anyone could hope for? Anathema certainly hoped not. She wanted to hope— that things would get better. Little things— this _was_ only a little thing, she told herself firmly— little things like this really ought to get better over time. Otherwise, what was the bloody point?

Anathema let out a deep sigh, ran her hands through her hair to make sure she was presentable, and then turned to the knocker, ready for whatever today’s bullshit riddle was.

 

She got it right first go, this time, and that seemed like a good enough omen that her heart rate had calmed slightly by the time she’d made her way into the common room.

Her next challenge, then, was to actually find Luna. That was the problem with this whole bloody house system: as Luna was in a lower year and a different house, they had virtually no way of interacting. Anathema supposed she could have gone up to the Ravenclaw table at dinner or something, but, well, that was a bit exposed, and the idea of walking over with everyone watching made her skin crawl. Besides, this wasn’t a thing you did in public, Anathema reckoned, unless you were a bit of a manipulative twat. So. Ravenclaw tower it was, then, but only if Luna was in the common room— hunting through the dorms, again, seemed a bit much, almost stalkerish.

To her eternal relief, Anathema spotted Luna almost immediately, tucked away at one of the little desks dotted around the room in between the bookshelves and high, wide windows, bright hair gleaming in the lamplight. Anathema pasted a grin onto her face and walked over.

Luna looked up and blinked owlishly as Anathema slid into the seat opposite her. She wasn’t wearing a necklace today, but large, dangly earrings which framed her face in quite a pretty way.

They also seemed to be made of radishes, but that was besides the point.

“Visiting your friend again? The clever one?” Luna asked, in that faraway voice of hers. Anathema tucked some of her hair behind her ear, and hoped desperately that she didn’t look sweaty.

“Er. Well. I was sort of hoping to talk to you, actually.”

Luna cocked her head to the side, earrings swaying cheerfully as she did so. “Why?” she asked, and sounded genuinely puzzled.

“Because I rather enjoyed our conversation the other day. And because I like you,” Anathema said earnestly. A small smile flirted across Luna’s face, dream-fast, but it was enough to send a tingly sort of feeling racing through Anathema’s limbs. Which was very fucking cliché. But there you had it.

“Yes you did say that,” Luna said. “And I said I liked you too.” She looked up and met Anathema’s eyes properly for the first time all conversation. “I meant it, you know.”

“I did, too,” said Anathema, and tried to stop the ridiculous grin threatening to spill over her face. All right. Okay. So far, she had, incredibly, managed to not totally cock things up. This was good. She decided to press on. “Yes. Well, anyway…” Anathema trailed off as she caught sight of what Luna had been working on— a sketchbook of some sort, brightly coloured pencil drawings spilling over the page, filling every inch. Flowers and dragons and more than a few crumple-horned snorkacks, all in the same fluid style, blending into one another. It was stupidly beautiful. Anathema looked from the sketchbook up to Luna.

“Holy shit. You drew all of this?” Anathema asked. Which was a stupid question, because Luna obviously had. They were, even in Anathema’s admittedly somewhat limited experience, very Luna-esque things to draw. And besides, she was sitting there with a pouch of pencils and colour-smudged hands. But Luna just smiled that pretty smile, and absently traced over the wing of one vibrant emerald-green dragon.

“I like to draw,” she said simply. “It lets my brain unwind.”

“Gosh,” said Anathema. “I’m always terribly jealous of people who are good at art, it seems like such a wonderful thing to be able to do…” This was true. Anathema had always thought of herself as the type of person who ought to be good at art, and was therefore fairly offended by the fact that she could barely draw a stick figure. “But. Brain unwinding. Sounds nice.”

Luna nodded happily, and seemed to feel like that was that. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

Anathema leaned forwards, casually. She hoped.

“Er. The thing is. There’s a Hogsmeade weekend soon, and I was sort of wondering if you’d like to go with me? If you’re not busy?” There. She’d said it. And her voice had only squeaked slightly at the end.

Luna blinked very slowly, digesting this information. _Very_ slowly. Anathema’s stomach was twisting itself into the trucker’s hitch knot.

“As a... _friend_?” Luna asked, eventually. Anathema winced— had that been a subtle rejection?— but there had been nothing dismissive or apologetic in Luna’s voice. Just open, honest wonder, sliding over the silky waves of her voice, as though the idea of being Anathema’s friend was the greatest thing in the whole wide world. Anathema cleared her throat, and pushed her hair back and over her shoulders. She’d come this far. Might as well go all the way now.

“Well. I’d certainly like to be your friend. But I also wouldn’t mind being… slightly more than friends, if you catch my drift.”

Luna’s pale eyebrows shot up rather dramatically. Anathema’s stomach seemed to move downwards in much the same way.

There was a longer, more awkward silence. Luna stared at her sketchbook. Anathema stared at the floor.

“I have to go to a meeting during the Hogsmeade weekend,” said Luna at last, in her earnest, lilting way. “I’d like to tell you what it’s about, only… I don’t think I’m allowed.”

Anathema continued to focus very intently on the small patch of carpet next to her foot.

“Oh. Well. Okay, then. That’s… okay.” She curved her mouth into a small smile, without much real humour in it.

“That’ll only take about fifteen minutes, though,” Luna continued, and Anathema looked up, heart thudding slightly. “And if you want to go anywhere after that, as more-than-friends…” Luna gave a small shrug, the movement jangling her earrings somewhat. “I’m all yours.”

It was a casual phrase, a tossed-around thing. Luna didn’t say it like it was a casual thing. She said it with the same candid intensity she said everything. Anathema felt her cheeks go very hot indeed, but at least with her darker skin, it didn’t show too much. Luna, by contrast, went _bright_ red, a blotchy flush climbing up from her neck to her forehead. It was quite a thing to watch.

“I’ve never had a friend before,” said Luna matter-of-factly. “And certainly no more-than-friends.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow.

“I thought Ravenclaw was supposed to be the clever house?”

Luna nodded, then frowned and furrowed her brow slightly.

“It is. But what does that have to do with—”

“Well, if none of them wanted to be your friend, then they’re all dirt-stupid,” said Anathema bluntly. “And I’ve got one—well, three proper friends now, I suppose, and I’ve never had a more-than-friend before either. I’ve only just figured out that I’m gay, really.” Anathema took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is,” she continued, somewhat haltingly, “is that we’ll sort of… muddle through. Together.”

And then, somewhat surprised by her own audacity, she reached across the table and grabbed Luna’s hand.

Luna laced her fingers through Anathema’s hand in turn. Her smile was radiant.

And now they were holding hands. Just like that. And it was… nice. It really was. She’d held hands with people before, of course, with parents and grandparents and primary school friends, and even with Aziraphale a few times, when they’d been a bit younger, but it hadn’t felt anything like this, hadn’t sent that same roaring feeling racing through Anathema’s bloodstream. Another fucking cliché. But there you had it.

 

Anathema had to leave all too soon, to avoid being caught out after curfew. But she left with a spring in her step, feeling oddly floaty. She’d asked out a girl. Not just any girl. Luna. And Luna has said yes. And then they had _held hands._ The whole thing was very surreal.

Anathema was still caught up in the wonderful newness of it all, when, just a few corridors away, she walked almost directly into Aziraphale. Anathema gave her friend a somewhat manic grin.

“I,” she announced dramatically, “am a lesbian extraordinaire.”

Aziraphale stared at her. Anathema’s grin widened.

“I asked Luna out, and she said yes,” she said excitedly. “We held hands, and everything. Aziraphale, I could lesbian for _England._ ”

“That’s… lovely,” Aziraphale forced out slowly. He sounded as though he was on the verge of tears. Anathema stared at him worridley, some of her wild elation vanishing.

“Aziraphale, are you all right?”

“I— do you remember the conversation we had at the beginning of the year? When you told me that you were…”

“Gay?” Anathema filled in for him. She caught on, quite suddenly, her eyes going wide. “Wait, do you think that you might be—”

“I don’t _know_ ,” said Aziraphale, voice heavy with frustration. “It’s just that— I’ve sort of realised that—oh, this is all so _complicated._ ”

He sank down onto the cool stone floor, and Anathema joined him. A snaking suspicion was working its way firmly into her mind. Confirming it was definitely a stupid idea, but Anathema had been going through with her stupid ideas all evening, and it had been working rather well, so far.

“Is it Crowley?” she asked, quietly.

Aziraphale shot her a look of sheer panic.

“Am I that obvious?” he asked in return. He sounded utterly miserable, and it broke Anathema’s heart, just a little. She shook her head quickly.

“Not to most people, I wouldn’t think. But… we know each other quite well by now, don’t we?”

He nodded slightly, and looked a little bit calmer. Anathema decided to take this as a good thing and press on.

“Well, are you going to tell him?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were huge behind his round glasses, his pupils dilated. He picked at the floor and avoided eye contact.

“It’s rather more complicated than just _telling_ him.”

Anathema shuffled closer, until their shoulders were touching.

“Not really.”

Aziraphale inspected his fingernails. They were perfect. They always were. Anathema didn’t know how he did it.

“But I’m _religious._ ”

Anathema’s eyes narrowed into dark hollows with the size and intensity of bullets.

“You don’t believe in all that bullshit about it being a sin.”

It wasn’t a question. It was almost an order. Aziraphale shook his head wearily.

“I think… my parents might, though.”

“Yeah, only you’re not asking _them_ out, are you? If you’re staring over Christmas, you won’t even have to see them until summer.”

Aziraphale nodded. He didn’t seem hugely reassured, but there was something on his face that might almost have been a smile.

Anathema jostled his shoulder slightly.

“Hey. You’ll be fine.”

She grinned, tried to lighten the tone slightly.

“Look, and when you ask Crowley out, yeah, we can totally go on a double date. Or triple date, even, if we set Newt up with someone in the interim.”

Aziraphale shrugged listlessly.

“It’s all… I don’t know how to do _any_ of this.”

Anathema draped an arm around his shoulder.

“That’s just life, I think. None of us really know jack shit. But just go with it, and pretend like you have a plan, and things usually work out fine.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and let out a deep, whistling breath.

“Well. I hope so.”

He _did_ seem slightly calmer, though. Legitimately. So that was something. They were quiet, for a moment, until Aziraphale turned to face her, and, with great weariness, brought out: “lesbian extraordinaire? That’s quite a claim to make.”

Anathema grinned, and told him the whole story. In great detail, until she finally ran out of things to say and the silence pressed in on them.

They sat like that for a little while, until they realised quite how late it was, and both had to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as ever for reading, i'm going to pass out now xx


	29. Chapter 29

Aziraphale tapped his quill against the desk, and did his level best not to scream. He had work to do, a lot of work, and he couldn’t focus on any of it, because he kept thinking about Crowley. Not that he was making any progress in actually making sense of his feelings— his mind seemed to be filling up with a cloud of white noise panic, until the only coherent thought he could form was _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley._

He did not, particularly, feel any better in the wake of his conversation with Anathema. If anything, Aziraphale just felt more useless, because Anathema was able to simply stroll up to the girl she liked and ask her out, and Aziraphale knew he would never in a million years be able to do the same, never muster up that easy self-confidence. He didn’t even know how he would form the words.

What did he know? That he was scared. That he understood both more and less about himself than he ever had before. That his parents most certainly wouldn’t approve, but that they had never approved much of him anyway. And that this Charms essay was due Monday, and he’d written all of three words thus far.

Aziraphale sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere, he was just… spiralling. Not doing his charms essay at all would probably result in a better quality outcome than whatever drivel he’d be able to spew out now. He put his quill down decisively, screwed the lid onto his inkwell. He’d just get up early, do the essay before breakfast tomorrow. A decent night’s sleep would do him a world of good, sort things out. Everything would make sense in the morning.

 

Everything most certainly did not make sense in the morning. Nor did it begin to make sense over the course of the weekend, during which Aziraphale mainly hid himself away in a corner of the library, allegedly in order to revise, and yet all the information seemed to slip back out of his mind immediately, which did nothing whatsoever to improve his stress levels. He breakfasted early, at times when he knew Crowley would still be asleep, and skipped lunch. He said very little at dinner. None of this did anything to stop the torrent of incoherent thoughts and feelings that flowed through him— he felt miserable and lonely and incredibly, incredibly stupid.

And everything still had not resolved itself into sense by Monday, when Aziraphale woke up early and immediately regretted it. In the pale light of day, everything— his own stupid inadequacy, his hopeless feelings for Crowley, the cold, politely disappointed faces his parents would undoubtedly make— it all seemed much worse, much more pressing. And, he realised with a sudden bolt of horror, he still had to do the bloody Charms essay, which he churned out with grim determination until he had something halfway decent, at which point he stuffed it into his satchel with a vindictive amount of force, and headed down to breakfast.

He was late, but he supposed that was all right— he hardly knew how he was going to make eye contact with Crowley, or Anathema for that matter, given how utterly pathetic he’d been all weekend, during which he’d spoken all of three words to the pair of them put together. Which, in an unlikely twist of fate, just left Newt, Aziraphale supposed. There was no reason that he couldn’t talk normally to Newt. So he could just have a very intense conversation with him about… broken spark plugs. Or something. Only that wouldn’t work either, because Anathema and Crowley hadn’t done anything to warrant him blatantly ignoring them. It was hardly their faults Aziraphale was a nervous wreck, after all, and while he was by no means eager for Crowley to discover the extent of his feelings, he also didn’t want to give off the idea that he blatantly _wasn’t_ interested, in case by some minor miracle… well.  At any rate, if nothing else, he desperately loved his and Crowley’s friendship, and didn’t want to lose it. Especially not over this.

Aziraphale took in a deep, steadying breath, ran a hand through his dark spill of curls. Talking to Crowley and Anathema was not supposed to be difficult, shouldn’t be difficult. They were two people he’d been talking to with relative ease for a month and a bit and about five years, respectively. He was overthinking this, and most definitely panicking a little, judging by the jackrabbit-beat of his heart, but then knowing you were panicking had never stopped anyone from panicking, and so he continued.

Aziraphale arrived in the great hall to find the other three already seated, slightly out of breath, and doing his best not to do anything stupid like cry. It was just all too much. Crowley. The ever-growing mountain of schoolwork. Exams, which loomed eerily on the horizon. His parents’ opinions on all those things. He conjured a somewhat wobbly half-smile onto his face, and practically collapsed onto his chair with no small sense of relief.

Crowley grinned at him, loose and casual, the angles of his face gliding into relaxed openness, and Aziraphale thought he might disintegrate, then and there.

Anathema smiled at him too, a small, reassuring thing, and Aziraphale smiled back gratefully. It was just breakfast. He could get through breakfast. And then he had— Aziraphale mentally ran through his schedule— double Herbology. With Crowley.

Well, there was no earthly way _that_ could go wrong, Aziraphale thought bitterly. Crowley arched an eyebrow.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, but there was a warmth to his words that offset the accusation and a small quaver of something that Aziraphale thought might have been hurt, which was most definitely wishful thinking, because he wanted so badly to believe that Crowley cared enough about him to be affected by his absence, and moreover it was practically sadistic of him, because of course he didn’t want Crowley to be upset, and—

And maybe he should stop overthinking everything and just have a normal bloody conversation. He gave a warm smile.

“Ah, yes, sorry about that… I just got so caught up with studying and things, you know…” feeling that this was, by some miracle, going all right so far, Aziraphale let a touch of defensiveness creep into his voice. “And besides, I was here at dinner. Both times.”

“Only physically,” said Anathema, in that voice that always reminded Aziraphale somewhat of a reproachful schoolteacher. She rolled her eyes in a friendly sort of way. “Did you get a lot of work done, anyway?”

Aziraphale picked at his toast.

“Nowhere near enough,” he managed, and the sudden thought of all the the work he could have gotten done that weekend if only he hadn’t been so distracted flashed before his eyes. It was only one weekend gone, yes, but how many weekends did he have left? He could practically feel his O.W.L. grades slipping away from him. Crowley nodded sympathetically.

“God, yeah. I still haven’t caught up with all the stuff I missed. I mean, where do they expect us to find the _time_?”

“Time-turner?” Newt suggested without much hope.

Anathema drummed her nails on the table.

“Well, in theory, but it’s practically impossible to get approved for one, isn’t it? And besides, they’d be no good for studying, because you have to avoid your past self, so you’d probably end up working in a broom closet or something.”

“I’ve never really got that, you know,” said Newt thoughtfully. “I mean, as long as you travel back to a point where you already had the time turner in your profession, you’d just think ‘oh, right, there I go.’ Or something.”

“And besides,” said Crowley, in a distant sort of voice, “I reckon we’ve all had enough of closets.”

_What?_

What on Earth was _that_ supposed to mean?

He didn’t— surely he _couldn’t—_ Aziraphale cast what he hoped was a sufficiently subtle-yet-panicky look at Anathema, who just shrugged. Aziraphale seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Crowley himself also seemed to have realised the significance of what he’d just said, and looked distinctly uncomfortable under his sunglasses, picking at his already ragged fingernails and very pointedly avoiding eye contact, or more so than usual, at any rate. Newt, meanwhile, was giving Aziraphale another one of those odd, odd looks he’d been getting for the past few days, and he squirmed under the intensity of it. All of this made for an unbelievably awkward atmosphere, and the four of them subsided into a stilted silence until breakfast ended mercifully soon afterwards, whereupon after saying their somewhat sheepish goodbyes to Anathema, Newt, Crowley, and Aziraphale set off to the greenhouses.

Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly.

“So,” he began, still looking down at the floor, “since I, uh, somewhat inadvertently killed the last conversation—” Newt snorted at this and Crowley shot him a glare without any real menace to it— “I suppose it falls to me to start the next one. Er.” He looked up to face Aziraphale, quite suddenly, and the weight of his gaze was startling. “Well, so since Anathema’s off with her nameless girlfriend for the Hogsmeade weekend, I suppose that means you’re stuck with the two of us.” Crowley pulled his face into a wry expression that positively stank of faux-casualness. “That is, if that’s all right with you. And if you even want to go, you might just want to stay here and study instead, I don’t know…”

Somehow, the all-too familiar sight of Crowley nervous and rambling was oddly reassuring, a reminder that he was far from the only one who didn’t have the foggiest clue of what he was doing. He let his face relax into an awkward little smile, fussed with his hair, as though that would achieve anything. Things were… confusing, to say the least. But this was Crowley. And Aziraphale had always found it remarkably easy to talk to Crowley.

“Of course I’ll go with you,” he said, and the excited little smile that flitted across Crowley’s face made him go slightly weak at the knees.

“Great. Good. That’s… yeah.” Crowley looked vaguely as though he might start skipping at any moment. Newt gave a somewhat pointed cough, but looked relieved when they rounded the corner and the greenhouses came into view.

“Thank god, an escape from you two and your endless mooning…”

Aziraphale flushed. Crowley looked vaguely offended.

“I don’t _moon_ ,” he said, somewhat uptightly. “I’m far too cool to moon.”

Newt raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? Well, what about—”

Crowley shook his head and grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s arm, pulling him over to their workstation. Aziraphale tried very hard to ignore the sudden thrill the skin contact sent through him.

“No way in Hell are we sticking around for the end of _that_ sentence, come on…”

“I’m going to find it one day, you know,” Newt shouted from behind him. Aziraphale had no idea what the pair of them were on about— some old in-joke, probably— but he loved seeing Crowley like this, the lopsided half-smile that played over his face, the easiness of it and yet full of that relentless, crackling energy.

Crowley turned around and flipped Newt off. But only very quickly, in case Professor Sprout caught on.

“Maybe you will,” he said, wriggling his eyebrows dramatically. “But first, you’re going to spend a whole day with us and our mooning, and you’re going to bloody well enjoy it.” And with that villain-esque speech complete, he flounced back over to Aziraphale.

“Well, that’s him told,” Crowley said cheerfully, pulling on his gloves. Aziraphale smiled half-heartedly, and Crowley tilted his head to one side.

“Hey, is everything all right? You’ve been really quiet all morning, and I mean, obviously I barely saw you over the weekend… you work far too hard, you know that?”

Aziraphale blinked.

“Fine,” he said hurriedly. “I’m fine. Just… overworked, like you said.” He paused to scrabble through his satchel, which gave the dual benefit of giving him something to do with his hands and allowing him to avoid eye contact. Eventually, his hands closed on the correct sheath of parchment, and he pulled it out with some relief, handing it to Crowley. “Besides,” he added with a wry smile, “I wouldn’t reckon you’d be against overwork when it gets us another essay done for this Herbology project.”

Crowley grinned.

“Fair enough. But, Aziraphale…” he looked up, and their gazes met in that peculiar mirrored imitation of eye contact that Crowley’s glasses afforded. “Do remember to take care of yourself as well, yeah? I missed you, this weekend.”

“I missed you too,” Aziraphale admitted. “This weekend. And… before.”

It was, he supposed, as close to a confession as he could manage right now.

There was a beat of silence, and then Crowley smiled, in a way that he at least must have thought looked relaxed.

“Well. Glad we’ve established that,” he said gruffly, and they got to work.

It was… strange. Things had changed, with Aziraphale’s realisation, of course they had. There was a distinct awkwardness on his part now, a sort of undercurrent of things he was too scared to admit. But oddly more galling were the vast majority of things that hadn’t changed— Crowley, and Aziraphale’s awareness of him, really weren’t all that different from what they’d been before, and if anything that only made his feelings seem more real, and compelling, as if to confirm that they’d been there all along, that all that had changed was his perception. It was, in an odd way, a little comforting, even; it showed that if nothing else, he hadn’t gone mad, that he wasn’t making this up. So that was something.

It was still terrifying. But even so.

They weren’t doing anything particularly groundbreaking with the tentaculas today, just some of the more menial tasks: weeding, making sure the soil pH was all right, and the like. Aziraphale was always surprised by how quickly he relaxed into this sort of task, the soothing nicety of working with your hands and letting your brain wander off. Only it didn’t appear to be wandering very far, at the moment, drifting maybe thirty centimetres at the most to peer worriedly at Crowley. This was his first Herbology lesson back, after all. And— there was a difference, now, a slight rigid wariness, a taunt set to Crowley’s face where before there had been simply easy confidence. Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, his eyes snagging on the flash of white bandage still visible in the minuscule gap between his dragonhide gloves and his sleeves.

“How’s your arm?” Aziraphale asked, quite abruptly, which was a question he supposed he should definitely have asked earlier. Crowley looked up and shrugged.

“Oh, uh. Fine. Still attached.” He gave the particularly resilient sprig of butterfly weed he was currently dealing with another fierce tug. “I think I’m getting the bandages off tomorrow, actually, so that should be exciting.”

“That’s a good sign, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale, looking over with some bemusement as Crowley continued to wrestle with what was really quite a small plant. “Do you need any help?”

“No, I’ve got this,” grunted Crowley. “Feels like a bloody test of my honour or something. Whosoever pulls this weed from this flower bed shall be the king of all England, and all that.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, and then laughed harder when the weed came loose quite suddenly, sending Crowley flailing backwards. Crowley righted himself and tossed the little green plant into their practically named weed bucket with as much dignity as he could muster. He shook his head woefully, and they continued, quiet for a moment.

“What do you think you’ll do?” Crowley asked after a little while. “After you leave Hogwarts, I mean.”

Aziraphale winced. School was stressful, and occasionally upsetting, yes, but it was the only system he really knew how to function in, and academically speaking, anyway, he functioned extremely well in it. He wasn’t quite sure what that would translate into outside the castle walls.

He _was_ sure it wouldn’t be good enough for his parents.

“Gosh. I don’t really know, yet. I’m hoping the careers meeting thing we have at some point will shed some light on the subject.”

He didn’t want to admit that he’d most likely get his GCSEs, get his A-levels, get as many muggle qualifications as possible, because that way he could appease his parents, and because that way he could stay in the relative comfort of the educational system, even if it was a system that he hated at times, because it was still easier than having to make his own choices about some vast, blurry ideal of a future. Because he could take notes, could regurgitate what other people told him to do, but didn’t really know how to think for himself.

Aziraphale sighed. “What about you?”

Crowley shrugged, and let out a self-conscious little laugh.

“I mean, I feel a bit stupid for even having asked this question in the first place, now, because I haven’t got the foggiest idea what I want to do with my life either.” He shrugged again. “But on the most superficial level of things… I suppose I want to run away.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“Run away how?”

Crowley splayed his fingers, the gloves somehow making them look even longer than usual. Piano-player fingers, Aziraphale thought idly.

“It’s… at one point in first year, I got out an atlas from the library, and a ruler, and I tried to figure out what the actual furthest place from Manchester is. Now, knowing my maths skills,” he said, somewhat ruefully, “I probably did it all wrong, but I think it’s somewhere in New Zealand.” Crowley tugged at another weed. “So maybe I’ll travel there, or something. Slowly. See a bit of the world as I go.”

Aziraphale smiled, a tad wistfully. It sounded nice, a lot nicer than anything he had planned for the future.

“And what are you going to do when you get there?”

Crowley laughed.

“No idea. Be dead fucking broke, probably. Or, you know…” he cleared his throat dramatically, and put on that ridiculous posh voice of his. “I could always engage in some _infantile muggle debauchery_ , as my uncle likes to call it.”

“Your uncle,” said Aziraphale, magicking his watering-can full again, “must be dreadfully good fun at parties.”

“Oh, he’s a huge hit at all the Death Eater cocktail soirees, believe me,” said Crowley dryly.

Aziraphale laughed, and then thought of Hastur and Ligur, and abruptly stopped. As bad as the pair of them were, from what he’d heard from Crowley, and from a few other sources, to be fair, his uncle sounded even worse. And was a bona-fide Death Eater, at a time when, if you believed certain people (Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he did, but he also wasn’t sure if he could afford not to), He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back. And that didn’t bode well for the world in general, but it especially wasn’t good for people like him. And he knew this particular aspect of the situation was probably worse for Crowley, on account of the whole situation with his mother, and the fact that he actually had to live with the three bastards. And he knew that Crowley coped with a lot of things by making stupid jokes about them.

Only, this felt like rather an odd thing to be making jokes about, all of a sudden.

Aziraphale realised with a jolt that this was one of the first times all year that he’d really given the You-Know-Who topic any real thought— he’d been so busy panicking about everything else that it had just sort of… slipped his mind. Which was really a very self-obsessed teenager sort of thing to do.

He could tack it onto the end of his steadily growing Things to Worry About List, he supposed. So far this year, the list comprised of exams, his parents, his feelings for Crowley… and now You-Know-Who, apparently.  

Aziraphale shook his head and turned back to Crowley. What had they been talking about before again?

New Zealand. And running away. And… yes. Much nicer things.

Aziraphale smiled.

“Well, if you ever need someone to commit debauchery with, I suppose…”

Crowley grinned.

“I’ll know just who to get in touch with.”

This was good. This was normal. And Aziraphale loved their conversations like this, really he did, even if he wished he had the courage to maybe say a little bit more.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! It's been a little while!! idk this was just a weirdly difficult chapter to get into for some reason, but thanks so much as ever for reading.


	30. Chapter 30

“It looks like a nice day, I reckon,” said Crowley, with a jolly certainty he seemed to have pulled out of thin air, peering round the snaking queue of black-clad Hogwarts students in their usual assortments of hats and scarves, and doing his best to ignore the steady ache emanating from his arm. Beside him, Newt snorted dryly.

“Yeah, if we ever get to see it, that is,” he groused, which Crowley supposed was fair enough. It was the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, and so their little group had decided to set out early to make the most of it (a trial in itself for Crowley, who was currently thinking regretfully of the warm, comforting embrace of his duvet), a sentiment which was, judging by how long they’d been standing in line, shared by about half the bloody school. And Filch’s idiotic method of checking every single student who had permission to go off a list took _eons_.

Crowley liked Hogsmeade, he really did. He liked the higgledy-piggledy quaintness of the shops and houses, and there was definitely something fascinating about it being the last remaining all-wizard settlement in Britain, even if the fact that students had to wear their school robes did mean that the locals had a tendency to stare at you as though you were part of the mafia.

Well. He liked it normally. Whatever his personal thoughts on the village, on this particular occasion Crowley was absolutely dreading actually getting there: Anathema would be heading off to her mysterious date more or less straight away, and he and Aziraphale and Newt were all going to go round Hogsmeade together.

And Crowley was sort of bricking himself at the thought.

Crowley sighed, and looked round desperately at the other members of their little quartet— if there was one thing worse than waiting in a queue for ages, it was waiting in a resigned, awkward near-silence.

Because things _had_ been slightly awkward lately, if Crowley was perfectly honest. Anathema seemed chipper enough, but all her excitement revolved around that Ravenclaw girl of hers and the date they’d be going on, and seeing as how she was still refusing to reveal the identity of this girl to Newt and Crowley, they didn’t really have too much to say, especially at such an ungodly hour of the morning, when he really couldn’t be expected to come up with any sorts of clever remarks.

He did hope that her date went well, though. She’d put her hair in some complicated sort of braid thing, a fancy one that showed off her equally fancy earrings, but also framed the calm, steady set of her face, the no-bullshit attitude. Anathema seemed really genuinely happy, and given that Crowley was too much of a pathetic coward to ever tell Aziraphale about how he really felt, he supposed he’d just sort of have to live vicariously through Anathema and her lesbian escapades.

But yeah. The awkwardness. And, as ever, his own searing, mindless panic. Going to Hogsmeade with Newt separately would have been fine, _was_ fine, given that they’d done it tons of times before, and it was usually a good laugh. And going with Aziraphale, despite Crowley’s mess of feelings, probably would also have been quite nice— whatever else, Aziraphale was a good friend, a great friend, and Crowley was desperate to enjoy that friendship. But the two of them put together… well.

Aziraphale had been… quieter lately, a bit more withdrawn, and Crowley was terrified that it was because Aziraphale had somehow picked up on Crowley’s disastrous mess of feelings, and he sort of hated himself for it. And Newt, in typical Newt fashion, had taken the news of Crowley’s crush in a less-than-entirely-subtle manner, with a lot of blatant staring, and Aziraphale had definitely caught onto that, only he wasn’t saying anything about it, which made Crowley feel like he definitely somehow knew the reason and felt awkward about it, which was less than ideal, obviously, and…

And on top of all that mess with Aziraphale, he had to make sure Newt didn’t feel left out, he really did, because he had been an absolute shite friend lately. So all in all, this apparently relaxing school outing had, thus far, done nothing precisely bugger-all to improve the levels of strained nervous terror bouncing through Crowley at all times.

If anything, he supposed they’d gotten worse.

 

After a while, Aziraphale cleared his throat self-consciously, and Crowley melted in relief. It was stupidly good to know that the silence was getting to someone else, too.

“It’s windy, though, I think,” he said, which was hardly Earth-shattering, but it was fine, because it was a conversation, which was more than they’d had for the past five minutes, and because it was a nice safe topic of conversation that wasn’t going to lead to any dramatic confessions, and, crucially, because they were British, after all, and if you didn’t have a long and profoundly uninteresting conversation about the weather at least once a week, the Queen came along and broke your kneecaps. Or something. “It’s, er, in the Ravenclaw tower, you can sort of hear it… whistling,” he pressed on, apparently keep to fulfil his own weather quota as soon as humanly possible.

“Whistling,” repeated Crowley somewhat blearily, and ran a self-consciously vain hand through his hair, which he’d spent ages messing up in just the right sort of way. Anathema grinned and batted at him with the ends of her plait, and Crowley swatted her off good-naturedly.

“Yeah, yeah. Not all of us have enough hair to braid, sunshine,” he said, allowing a touch of plaintiveness to slip into his voice. Anathema ceased her hair-based assault on Crowley, and turned to ruffle through Aziraphale’s curls instead.

“You’re getting there, though, I reckon,” she told him, a teasing grin playing round her mouth, soft and ironic at once. Aziraphale flushed slightly, but smiled all the same, and it pushed up his cheeks and made his whole face look incredibly round and soft and open and— and Crowley really needed to stop doing this, this desperate pining nonsense, because it was getting to the point where it was _embarrassing_ , even if he was the only one who could experience the full extent of it.

Crowley looked down at the soft fabric of his scarf, let his gaze unfocus on the black and yellow stripes. He just— he wanted— to touch Aziraphale. Not, er, like _that_ — well, a little bit like that, if he was perfectly honest— but just— casual contact, skin against skin, the warmth of Aziraphale’s soft curves against him. Holding hands, maybe. He wondered what it would feel like.

Crowley needed to pull himself together, and fast.

The queue inched forward, and they inched forward with it. Newt gave a pointed sigh.

“It’s just such a stupid system. Why can’t they make a list of people who _don’t_ have permission to go instead, and check off that?”

Crowley grinned and propped his arm on Newt’s conveniently located shoulder.

“Because that would involve the school being _efficient_ , and we all know that’s clearly some evil muggle ploy designed to destroy our way of life.”

He hadn’t been sure if his uncle was going to give him permission to go to Hogsmeade or not. But by third year, Crowley supposed his uncle must have figured he had him well-trained, and besides, the cardinal rule of the Jaeger household was to keep up appearances, to feign a sense of normalcy.

Crowley’s hand went reflexively to the solid frame of his sunglasses.

Yeah. That had worked out really well.

Heigh ho. Any excuse to spend his uncle’s money was a good one. Fuck knew the bastard had enough of it.

The wind had properly picked up by the time they finally got out of the castle, and Crowley hissed and pulled his scarf tighter around his lanky frame. He’d been right— it was a nice day, bright and fresh and properly crisp in that way that autumn days sometimes were.

That still didn’t excuse it being so bloody _cold_ , of course.

But the wind pulled at Aziraphale’s hair, tugging those incredible spun-gold curls this way and that, and Aziraphale raised a small, plump hand to pat them down, an absentminded little frown playing around the corners of his mouth, and Crowley supposed that the weather wasn’t so bad after all.

They were quiet on the walk down— Anathema looked slightly nervous, something tight to her face, constantly reaching her hand up to brush through her hair, then remembering it was in a braid and dropping abruptly. Aziraphale looked withdrawn and lost in his own mess of thoughts, soft brown eyes unfocused and distant. Newt just didn’t quite seem to have woken up yet, and Crowley could most definitely relate. But they reached Hogsmeade soon enough, the slightly off-kilter buildings and cobbled streets and the excited chatter of students carrying on that stubbornly persistent wind. Anathema ran her hands down her braid one last time, checking that all was as it should be, grinned with only a slight wobble, and then set off to go and meet her date. Crowley watched her go with an odd mix of a sort of pride and a sort of envy. Then he spun round to face Newt and Aziraphale, clapping his hands together and giving his best circus-ringleader smile. This was fine. This was going to be fun. He’d be energetic and make sure Newt didn’t feel left out and that Aziraphale was okay and it would all be just fine. Right. Yes.

“Where to first, then? Anyone need any school stuff?”

Aziraphale nodded, curls bobbing gently.

“I’m almost out of ink. And I could do with a new quill as well, I suppose…”

Crowley rolled his eyes, a gesture which was, as ever, tragically lost under his sunglasses. And the fact that his eyes were quite difficult things so roll, but he made do.

“They always snap, don’t they? Or go blunt. Honestly, Anathema’s really selling me on the whole ballpoint thing,” Crowley said, pushing his satchel higher up his shoulder as they set off to Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop.

Newt nodded wisely.

“‘S what you said earlier, though, isn’t it? About how wizards view efficiency as the tool of the devil or whatever.”

“I mean,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully, “where are we buying all these quills from? Here, or Diagon Alley during the holidays. So maybe it’s about trying to support wizard-owned businesses, or something. Which is...” he frowned, a small divot appearing in between his brows, and some distant, wistful part of Crowley’s mind wanted to reach out and smooth it. To plant a kiss on that forehead, maybe. Aziraphale continued. “Well, it’s just that I honestly can’t decide if that’s insidious, or almost noble.”

“Depends on your perspective, I suppose,” said Crowley airily, and just like that, the three of them were having a normal conversation. An actual decently interesting conversation. _This might just all be alright_ , thought Crowley, and let his shoulders unclench infinitesimally. _Might_ being the operative verb, of course, but still.

The quill shop was mercifully warm, and if Crowley and Newt had a mini fencing match with two spell-checking quills while Aziraphale was off making his purchases, at least they were subtle enough about it that the shop owner didn’t notice. And so by the time Aziraphale walked over to the corner where they’d positioned themselves, cheeks slightly flushed and with an unassuming brown paper packet nearly tucked under his arm, Crowley was surprised to find that against all the odds, he’d somehow managed to relax. Just a bit.

Aziraphale watched the rest of their epic duel in bemused silence, finally breaking into a polite round of applause as Crowley completed his nicely melodramatic death at the hands of Newt’s deadly, decidedly unsharpened quill. Crowley stood up abruptly, gave a little bow, and checked to make sure that his own quill wasn’t bent or anything before placing it back on the shelf. Newt followed suit, and off they went.

They walked back out into the cold, bright sunlight, and, not particularly having anything better to do, ambled into the messy second-hand bookshop across the street.

This proved to be a colossal mistake.

Crowley knew, obviously, that Aziraphale liked books. The Ravenclaw has his nose buried in one more often than not, and then there was his whole running thing with Anathema about that prophecy book. He still hadn’t expected the _reverence_ on Aziraphale’s soft face, the gentle way he ran his hands over the spines, like he was greeting old friends. There was a distant, gentle candidness to his face and Crowley realised with a jolt that even if the Ravenclaw wasn’t as jittery as he was, he had been nervous as well. Worried.

Only now, plainly, he wasn’t. Now he was leafing through an old, dusty hardback, turning the pages slowly, carefully, and all Crowley could really do was stare like the lovesick idiot he was.

He probably could have continued to do so for an unlimited amount of time, given that Aziraphale’s attention was clearly elsewhere, only… well, the bookshop wasn’t crowded, per se, but there were a few other students milling around behind the shelves somewhere and Newt would obviously give him shit for it and besides, he _really_ didn’t need his cousins finding out anything along those lines and… yes. Crowley tore his gaze away with some effort, and picked up the nearest book off the shelf in order to give his hands something to do.

It was a Bible. Bloody typical. Crowley let out a low hiss and quickly put it down again.

He browsed through the rest of the shelf for a bit, before he and Newt ambled through the whole shop, looking at all the different sections, magic and muggle, fact and fiction, and took their time about it, too.

And then they walked right the way back again, and Aziraphale, still utterly engrossed in his book, didn’t even seem to notice that they’d been gone.

Crowley glanced at Newt, who raised his eyebrows in an I-don’t-fucking-know-mate sort of way, and cleared his throat with an awkward, deliberate loudness.

Aziraphale didn’t so much as blink.

Crowley tried again, still to no avail. He felt a bit like Umbridge, and did not appreciate it one bit. He cleared his throat for a third time, only this time he caught on something, and broke into a hacking coughing fit.

Newt looked like he was having an absolutely _brilliant_ time.

“Really, my dear boy,” said Aziraphale vaguely, his head still buried in a book, and it was such a completely ridiculous thing to say, and yet such a perfectly bloody _Aziraphale_ thing to say, that it took a moment to register.

And then it did. With all the force of an impending freight train.

Crowley’s brain skipped over the ‘boy’ part well enough, stumbled over the gentle possessive of the ‘my’, then tripped, fell, and got positively wedged in a hole on ‘dear’. He stared blankly at Aziraphale for a little bit, hoping that an explanation would be forthcoming. It wasn’t.

“Er,” said Crowley, eloquently. “I, er... what?”

Aziraphale looked up for what must have been the first time in about half an hour, blinking fuzzily. He seemed completely unaware as to what he’d just said, which was fair enough, because he very probably hadn’t meant anything by it, anyway. But even so.

“Er,” said Crowley again. Shakespeare, he reflected bitterly, would have been proud. “Never mind,” he added quickly, “you just keep browsing, me and Newt will just… yeah,” he finished lamely, grabbing Newt’s arm and dragging him off into the maze of shelves until they were far away enough that he reckoned there was no earthly way Aziraphale could overhear them.

“Did you hear what he just said?” Crowley spoke as loud as he dared, his mounting hysteria warring with his equally ridiculous paranoia. Newt nodded solemnly.

“You, my friend, seem to have fallen head over heels for a fifty year old man.”

Crowley swatted at Newt’s shoulder.

“Well, yeah, but… I mean, what the bloody hell does _that_ mean? My dear, or whatever? What do I do with that?”

All the jittery energy Crowley had steadily been relaxing away from all morning had returned in full force. He did his best to tamp it down.

“It means,” said Newt firmly, “that you should tell Aziraphale how you feel.”

Crowley glared at him. Newt glared right back. Then he sighed, a long, eminently fed up thing.

“Look,” Newt said. “I get why you’re scared, course I do, but my dear boy is hardly a common platonic form of endearment, is it?”

Crowley fiddled with his already ravaged nail beds, torn between a stupid, desperate desire to hope, to dream that this him-and-Aziraphale thing might one day, you know, actually be a thing, and the equally terrifying force of his fear. Of— he didn’t know. Rejection. His cousins. The bloody logistics of it all.

“It probably is just friendly, though,” he mumbled. “I mean, it’s the kind of thing he’d say, isn’t it, and besides, there’s no reason why he’d even look at me like that— well, he wasn’t even looking at me, was he, he was just trying to read his stupid book—”

Newt grabbed hold of Crowley’s shoulder.

“Why are you so bloody determined not to let yourself be happy?” he asked, tone fond but distinctly exasperated.

Crowley shrugged.

Newt shook his head and tried again.

“It’s— just try and look at it in a positive light, okay? He just called you _his dear_. That’s, er, it’s definitely something.”

Crowley managed a small smile.

“Yeah. I suppose.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re a brilliant friend, you know that? I really don’t know how you put up with me sometimes.”

Newt grinned.

“I ask myself the same question every goddamn day. Come on then, let’s go find your old man.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up.

“I will literally pay you to never say that phrase again.”

Newt just laughed, and the two of them set back off through the shelves. Back to Aziraphale.

The Ravenclaw had, finally, managed to drag his head out of his book, and was clutching it tightly in one hand, while the other played absently with the tassels at the end of his blue and grey scarf.

Aziraphale had, Crowley had always thought, remarkably nice hands, small, with delicate wrists and unnervingly neat fingernails, in stark contrast to the ragged, desperate mess of Crowley’s. And that was most definitely an inappropriate line of thought to be going down just then. Crowley blinked and refocused.

The relaxed, blissful look he’d had when they’d first walked into the bookshop was gone, and Crowley found that he already missed it. But he plastered on a grin anyway, and gestured towards the book.

“Right, you have to buy the bloody thing now, after taking so long about it.”

Aziraphale looked down at the book with mild surprise, as though he’d almost forgotten he was holding it, although Crowley was fairly sure he was clenching the thing with enough force to leave a handprint-shaped dent in the leather. He coughed awkwardly.

“Ah. Yes. Well.” he bit his lip awkwardly, and Crowley could practically _feel_ the want radiating off him. “That is, it does look terribly interesting, but I really can’t justify—”

“What you really can’t justify,” Newt piped in flatly, “is leaving me on my own with this disaster for so long, and then not even getting yourself a book out of the whole thing.”

A faint smile twisted across Aziraphale’s face at that, although he still looked vaguely doubtful.

Crowley fiddled with his sunglasses.

“Um. Well. If you like, I could buy it for you?” He asked, voice rising uncertainly. “Not like— it’s, I mean, any excuse to spend my uncle’s money, after all, and I just— you’re a really good friend,” he said, voice quiet and oddly— light? “And I suppose— I want to say thank you. For putting up with all my bullshit.”

Aziraphale softened.

“I— well, if you’re happy to, I really don’t want to impose—”

Crowley reached for the book. For a moment, his fingers brushed against Aziraphale’s, and he did his best to act as though he hadn’t noticed.

“I am,” he said. “I really am.”

Newt cleared his throat.

“Right, sorry, if he’s getting a book after dealing with you for what, two months, I’d better be getting a mansion any day now.” But there was no real bitterness to it, and he knew that Newt got it. Or hoped so, anyway.

Crowley made a big show of elegantly presenting Newt with a particularly tasteful hand gesture, and then the three of them went off to get lunch.

The book, Crowley couldn’t help but notice, did not leave Aziraphale’s firm grip for the rest of the afternoon.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not dead!! shocker  
> also two (2!!!) brilliant people have now made fanart for this which you should definitely check out:  
> https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/503377  
> https://imgur.com/3E8OvJI  
> thanks to all of you for reading and for being absolutely amazing xxx


	31. Chapter 31

Aziraphale ran his hand over the smooth, worn leather of his book, the solid heft of it. It was an oddly reassuring weight, familiar. 

And he supposed he could do with all the reassurance he could get at the moment, because the more Aziraphale thought about it, the more he reckoned he had been extremely, thoroughly stupid. 

It was a book of Wilde’s poetry,  _ old,  _ a beautiful leather-bound edition, and such an odd thing for a bookshop in Hogsmeade of all places to have that Aziraphale had felt strangely drawn to it. He’d read some Wilde before, certainly, but not much, and as a choice of author it felt… oddly pertinent, given all the realisations he’d come to, recently. 

And then Crowley had offered to buy it for him. And he’d been so dreadfully earnest about it, and this was exactly the kind of thing that his parents got annoyed about him spending money on, that Aziraphale had, still feeling remarkably awkward about the whole thing, accepted. And even though Crowley had made it eminently clear that this was nothing more than a friendly gesture, having a physical token of Crowley’s affection, in whatever platonic capacity, still sent a giddy rush of warmth spiking down Aziraphale’s nerves. 

He wondered if Crowley had noticed, the fact that the book was by Wilde, if he’d picked up the same connotations. Aziraphale sincerely hoped not, because he reckoned he’d made enough of an ass of himself for one day as it was. 

_ My dear boy _ . Really, what had he been thinking?

He hadn’t, that was the bitter truth; he’d been caught up in his book, in the mellifluous sway of Wilde’s words, and it had just— slipped out. 

It was a ridiculous thing to say, stilted and old-fashioned, but, as with the Wilde, there were… connotations, weren’t there? 

And Crowley, whatever his thoughts on Wilde, had certainly picked up on those connotations, because Aziraphale had  _ seen _ it, seen the way the lines of his face had gone slack for a moment, the small, surprised  _ oh _ he’d let out before he’d started stammering in earnest. Before he and Newt had physically had to leave, for a moment, in order for him to— calm down? 

And then Crowley had offered to buy the book as a friendly gesture, very deliberately as a friendly gesture. Or… as a rejection? Aziraphale ran his hand over the spine of the book again, his beautiful book, and felt slightly sick. 

He ought to apologise. Crowley was his friend, was first and foremost his friend, and the fact that he had to keep repeating that to himself only served to show how wrapped up in his own hopeless emotions he’d become. Crowley was his  _ friend _ , and Aziraphale shouldn’t ruin that, shouldn’t want to. He certainly shouldn’t be making Crowley feel uncomfortable over it. 

With a sudden firmness of resolve, Aziraphale broke out of his reverie, peering cautiously over at Newt and Crowley, who were bickering with mindless ease over something ridiculous— the superiority of various species of owl? The three of them had settled comfortably in a corner table at the Three Broomsticks, clutching butterbeers as they waited for Anathema to put in an appearance, while Luna went off to that mysterious secret meeting of hers. Which was all a bit peculiar, Aziraphale thought, but then Luna herself could be just a tad peculiar too, couldn’t she?

Not, Aziraphale thought, somewhat wryly, that he was in any position to judge. 

Newt went off to get some more drinks, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley sat in nervous silence. Aziraphale shot Crowley an unbearably stilted half-smile which was probably more homicidal than encouraging, still running one thumb over the spine of the book. But Crowley smiled back, slowly, carefully, and Aziraphale supposed that was as good an opening as he was going to get. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again, then decided that if he truly wasn’t going to tell Crowley about how he felt, it was best to just— clear the air. Move on. He took a deep breath. 

“Er,” he said, awkwardly. “I just wanted— to apologise.” 

“Oh,” said Crowley, tone politely bemused. Aziraphale tried very hard not to look at his mouth, and didn’t quite succeed.  “What for?”

Aziraphale took another deep breath. 

“For, ah, what I said earlier. The ‘my dear boy’ business. I only— I didn’t mean anything by it— just sort of slipped out, you know—”

“Oh,” said Crowley again, looking down at his lap as though the pooled ends of his scarf were the most fascinating things in the world. “Oh, right. Obviously.” 

His voice was a few octaves higher than normal, slightly unsteady. It was the voice, Aziraphale had quickly picked up, that Crowley used when he was attempting to lie about something, to hide his true feelings. 

Aziraphale didn’t  _ want  _ to lie to Crowley, obviously, but he would prefer to put off the clearly inevitable rejection, would prefer not to humiliate himself, and just to hope that his terribly, terribly inconvenient feelings would bugger off of their own accord. And that meant convincing him. And so he plastered on a smile, and on he went. 

“Because, it’s only, when reading old books— I mean, I tend to pick up the odd phrase— I didn’t mean to, to—” he paused, tried to look for the right word, tried to avoid looking anywhere in Crowley’s general vicinity, because he really, desperately didn’t want to see the look on the other boy’s face. “To patronise you, or make you feel uncomfortable, or anything. Because—” Aziraphale looked up, finally, but found whatever tangle of emotion that was currently flitting across Crowley’s face to be utterly incomprehensible. “You’re— such a good friend to me. An incredible friend.” 

Crowley nodded slowly. 

“Friends,” he mumbled. “Yeah.” He did not, perhaps, sound as at ease or reassured as Aziraphale might have hoped about the whole thing. 

They faded back into eerie silence, and Aziraphale was left with his own racing heartbeat and the lurching, heavy feeling that he had somehow ended up saying the complete wrong thing after all. 

He was dreadfully relieved when Newt showed up a few moments later, with a beaming Anathema in tow. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said cheerfully, and Anathema flipped him off, still with a smile so large it threatened to break her face in two. 

It was nice, Aziraphale supposed, to know that at least one of them was happy, was brave enough to let herself be happy. 

Newt looked down at his empty hands, and frowned almost comically. 

“Ah, fuck, drinks…” he turned and made to leave again. “Butterbeer all right?” he asked Anathema, and as she nodded, he beckoned over to Crowley to give him a hand. The two of them left, leaving Aziraphale to quirk an eyebrow at Anathema. 

“So, I take it this date of yours is going well, then?”

Anathema nodded, earrings jangling. 

“ _ Very _ well. I’ll introduce you to her, soon— well, and to the other two, this whole secrecy thing is getting a bit ridiculous.” She worried at her lip. “I really don’t want Luna to think I’m ashamed of her, or anything— I mean, the only reason I haven’t just told them is to piss off Newt, really.”

Aziraphale let out a small smile, but couldn’t muster up the energy for anything more. Anathema’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. 

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Aziraphale shook his head vigorously. 

“No, it’s your big day, just me being stupid, I’d much rather hear about your date…”

Anathema folded her arms across her chest, and Aziraphale sighed, and then it all came tumbling out— what he’d said, how Crowley had reacted. 

Anathema nodded very slowly. 

“ _ My dear boy _ ? Did you happen to turn eighty while I wasn’t looking?”

Aziraphale shook his head miserably. 

“I  _ know _ . But I apologised, at least, told him I didn’t mean anything by it—”

Anathema’s eyes narrowed again, which didn’t particularly inspire confidence. 

“And was that true?”

Aziraphale blinked, nonplussed. 

“What?”

“Well,  _ did  _ you mean anything by it?”

Aziraphale considered this unhappily for a second. It had just slipped out, that was true, and the  _ boy _ part was unbearably patronising— not to mention ridiculous, considering they were the same age— but  _ my dear _ … well, it was sweet, he supposed, and in some hypothetical, utterly unattainable parallel universe, he supposed he wouldn’t necessarily have minded it as a term of affection. But he didn’t quite know how to vocalise any of this— or dare to, if he was being honest— and so Aziraphale just gave a listless sort of shrug. 

Anathema rolled her eyes and steamrollered onwards. 

“And how did Crowley react to it? Your apology?”

Aziraphale shrugged again. 

“Oh, I don’t know. He seemed a bit… well, he wasn’t as enthusiastic as I might have hoped.”

Anathema closed her eyes for a moment. 

“And have you  _ thought _ ,” she said slowly, taking care to enunciate every word, “about what his reasoning might be for that?”

Aziraphale blinked. He could, when it was put like that, see what Anathema was getting at, but… well, it just seemed so unlikely, didn’t it? He said as much, and Anathema let out a long and deeply frustrated sigh. 

“Look,” she said, “I get that this is difficult. I  _ get _ it. And as much as I might want to solve it for you, I can’t. If you’re not up to just telling him how you feel, then have you considered that little statements like this might be enough to sort of… give him an idea? Put the ball in his court, as it were.”

Aziraphale considered this for a moment. 

“Do you mean like… flirting?” he said, with no small amount of horror in his voice. “But I can’t—”

“Yes, Aziraphale, I certainly do mean flirting,” said Anathema firmly. “And you absolutely can. Just… test the waters, you know? See how he reacts.”

Aziraphale shook his head. 

“I mean, I see what you’re getting at, obviously, but I just  _ can’t _ — I mean, he wouldn’t—”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Crowley gamely, handing Aziraphale his butterbeer as he slid into his seat. Aziraphale swallowed nervously. 

“No one— we were just, ah, discussing…” He looked down at the book he still held clenched in one small, pudgy fist. “Wilde’s artistic intentions. Er.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow, but did not contradict him. 

Crowley nodded, seeming to accept this happily enough, and then turned to face Anathema. 

“So. How’s this date of yours going?” 

Anathema grinned. 

“Well, I think… or I hope so, anyway,” she added with a self-conscious laugh. “But I’d like you all to meet her. Soon. You’ve all been… surprisingly not awful about this.”

Newt clasped a hand to his chest. 

“That’s the single nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he said, voice thick with melodrama. 

Anathema rolled her eyes, but her smile never wavered. 

The four of them chatted on for a bit, mindless small talk, mainly, to which Aziraphale was only half paying attention. The majority of his focus had been diverted to watching Anathema, who continued to look disgustingly happy as she kept checking the clock to see if Luna’s meeting had finished yet. 

And the other part of Aziraphale’s brain, of course, was, as ever, hyperaware of Crowley's every move. He desperately hoped that there weren’t any legilimenses around, because the whole thing was terribly embarrassing— oh, not that he was thinking anything lewd, of course, just— just about the small things, like the way Crowley tilted his head back when he laughed, how his hair fell over his forehead.

If he could remember as many details about Charms as he could about every aspect of Crowley’s being, Aziraphale thought glumly, he’d be in a far better position. 

When Anathema’s patience finally gave out, and she half-ran out of the Three Broomsticks to go and see if Luna had finished her meeting yet, Crowley watched her go with a lazy sort of smile on his face. 

“That girl really makes her happy, doesn’t she? Must be nice.” 

He was, Aziraphale realised, face going hot, staring at him as he said this. Or at least he thought he was, what with the sunglasses — it  _ felt  _ like he was. 

And what on Earth did that mean? Nothing, probably. 

But if it did, somehow… Aziraphale thought back to Anathema’s earlier words, and swallowed awkwardly. He still didn’t… the idea of physically getting the words out still felt utterly unattainable, but maybe he could sort of hint at things. Maybe. It was just, his panicked mind was quick to remind him, that if Crowley caught on, and didn’t feel the same way, he’d still ruin everything, wouldn’t he? 

Then again, Aziraphale thought glumly, he said such a terribly large amount of stupid things that Crowley likely wouldn’t even notice. 

He thought back to his earlier comment.  _ My dear boy _ . Completely ridiculous, of course, it  _ was  _ ridiculous, but it might just be enough… for Crowley to consider the possibility, at least. And suddenly, the apology he’d been so proud of moments earlier felt like a sick weight on his chest. Did Crowley now think… well, he wasn’t particularly ready for the other boy to know that he liked him, but he also didn’t want Crowley to think that he  _ didn’t  _ like him. 

This whole situation, this… was it flirting? It was wretchedly complicated, whatever it was, and Aziraphale was most definitely terrible at it. But he could try, he supposed. 

Newt downed the last of his butterbeer, and grinned over at the two of them. 

“Right. Where to now?” 

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, hands folded on the table in front of him, fingers long and elegant.  _ Piano-player’s fingers _ , he thought absently. He wondered what they would feel like, threaded through his own. Then, quite suddenly:  _ fuck it _ . 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, wondering quite how he ought to phrase this. “Er. Crowley. Would you mind if we had a quick word…” 

He looked over at Newt and silently tried to convey what he needed. Aziraphale did feel vaguely awkward about this— Newt was Crowley’s best friend, after all, and he really didn’t want to— to steal Crowley away, or anything like that, but this was going to be painful enough as it was, and Aziraphale certainly didn’t need an audience. 

Newt rolled his eyes rather dramatically, but he seemed vaguely irritated rather than actually annoyed, and Aziraphale decided to take this as a good sign. 

“Yeah. Er, go for it. I need to pee anyway, so have fun with your… whatever this is.” 

Newt pushed his chair back and scuttled off, leaving Aziraphale alone with a vaguely terrified looking Crowley. 

They sat in silence for a moment, until Aziraphale realised with a jolt that he really ought to be the one to initiate this conversation. 

“I lied,” he blurted out, quite suddenly. 

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth forming a perfectly confused little  _ oh.  _

“About, ah, what exactly?” he said weakly. There was a nervous little tremor to his voice and Aziraphale should have taken that as his sign to stop, he really should have, but he was too far gone now, and his mouth seemed to have left all rational thought for dead in a back alley somewhere. 

He took a deep breath. Then:

“About what I said earlier. About the whole… my dear boy thing. Er, that is, I’m not sorry I said it, actually.”

Crowley still looked completely nonplussed. 

“Okay,” he said slowly, dragging the two syllables out as far as they could go. “And that means…”

“It’s just,” Aziraphale said. He stopped for a moment and tried to figure out just what it actually was. “It’s just. Well, the  _ boy _ part was terribly patronising, obviously but I’m… not sorry about the My dear part, actually, I’ve decided.”

“Okay,” Crowley said, and there was the faintest whisper of something that might have been a tentative smile playing about his lips. “Um. Can I ask why?” 

This was going well. It really was. And this might, had Aziraphale had the courage, have been an excellent moment to tell Crowley how he really felt. 

He didn’t. But he could… take a small step, perhaps?

“Well,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You call me angel, don’t you? So it’s only fair I have some sort of nickname for you.”

Crowley nodded, then stopped abruptly. 

“I, er…  _ my dear _ is quite an affectionate nickname, isn’t it?” he said haltingly. 

“Is that all right?” Aziraphale asked, voice high and oddly narrow in the awful way it always seemed to get when he was nervous. 

Crowley did smile then, wide and genuine, if still somewhat jittery. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I reckon it is, angel.” 

“Well. Er. My dear.” 

And the silence that followed was awkward and achingly long and the happiest Aziraphale had felt in a long, long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my gcses properly kick off in uhh about a week so things will likely be slow for a little while but i'll write whenever i find the time and i am coming back i swear!!  
> although i fully intend to try and get at least another chapter posted before then, this does feel like a good moment to add that i'm not going to be watching the go tv show until after my last exam on june 17 (yes i know everyone else finishes on the 14th i took further maths and it was the worst decision of my life okay) so i'd just like to respectfully ask that you not put anything spoilery in the comments.  
> as ever, thanks so much for reading and i'll see you soon xxx


	32. Chapter 32

Anathema drummed her fingernails on the table and looked at the by now fairly familiar sight of Crowley and Aziraphale’s empty chairs with a resigned sort of amusement. 

“Are they going to show up at all today, do you reckon?” she asked Newt, and the Hufflepuff grinned.

“We should start having bets. If they’ll show, what time, all that.”

It had become a fairly regular occurrence, over the past couple of weeks, for Aziraphale and Crowley to go off and water the tentaculas during lunch, and either take obnoxiously long to do so, or, more recently, simply not come back at all. Which was sort of fair enough— their respective Herbology O.W.L.s did rather depend on it, after all, and it had to be done sometime. And Anathema could certainly understand why Aziraphale would rather Crowley didn’t go alone, after everything.

But. But the thing was, Anathema did sort of want to see her friends, sometimes, too. The fact that she was in Slytherin meant that she shared absolutely no classes with any of them, and as she was spending more time with Luna these days, she seemed to be spending less and less of it with Aziraphale. 

Anathema had very begrudgingly started to worry about Aziraphale, just a little. He’d never been the most sociable person, but he’d had this horribly nervous expression more or less permanently plastered onto his face ever since he’d told Anathema about his feelings for Crowley, and more than that, the Ravenclaw had become really rather quiet and withdrawn. 

Part of it, Anathema knew fine well, was O.W.L.s, of course. The first term had all but blown by, and their exams loomed ominously on the horizon, closer than anyone had realised. Everyone was beginning to get just a tad antsy, and Aziraphale most of all— this came as no surprise, but worried Anathema, just the same. 

But the other— and possibly more significant— problem hanging over Aziraphale’s head, some sort of warped Sword of Damocles, was Crowley. Or how Aziraphale felt about him, at any rate. And so Anathema couldn’t help but wonder if, given the circumstances, spending such vast amounts of time alone with the Hufflepuff was such a good idea. 

Oh, not that Anathema thought that they were doing anything untoward— Aziraphale would have told her, she hoped— no, she knew, really— and besides, Anathema reckoned Aziraphale would probably look a lot happier if they were. But as things stood, Crowley had given no indication that he either reciprocated or even realised Aziraphale’s feelings for him, which was… puzzling, to say the least, because while Aziraphale was by no means smooth, he also certainly wasn’t subtle. Newt, at any rate, had noticed something, and had been doing rather a lot of blatant staring at Aziraphale recently, at times when he thought people wouldn’t notice. Pretty much everyone had. 

Anathema looked over at Newt wryly and thought that she of all people was in no position whatsoever to judge if the fact of the matter was simply that Crowley wasn’t interested in Aziraphale in that way. Come to that, she wasn’t even sure of his sexuality. What she  _ could  _ take issue with was that Crowley hadn’t just come out and said so, which would be… awkward, yes, but probably better for them all in the long run. Give Aziraphale a chance to move on. 

Of course, the alternative was that Crowley was in just as deep as Aziraphale was, and just as awful at conveying his emotions. And there had been… moments, more than a few, where Anathema had caught him looking at Aziraphale in a way that made her think— or, all right, hope— that this might just be the case. 

Then again, Crowley might simply have been fantastically unobservant. There was no way for her to tell, really. 

Anathema watched with a wince as Newt butchered a piece of toast with frankly ungodly amounts of butter. Unless…

“They’ve grown awfully close, the two of them, don’t you think?” she said lightly, hoping Newt would pick up what she was on about without too much prompting. 

“S’pose so,” said Newt. He narrowed his eyes. “Hang on,  _ close _ meaning…?”

Anathema paused, and took a moment to consider her next words carefully. 

“They’re fairly… intimate, aren’t they? And they do spend a lot of time together.” There, that ought to be non-committal enough to work. 

Newt blinked. 

“So you’re saying that— you think the two of them are—”

“I mean, I don’t think that they’re actually  _ doing  _ anything, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” said Anathema, and Newt waved a hand dismissively. 

“Oh, I know  _ that _ ,” he said. He leaned in. “But the real question is, do you think that they might want to be? Doing things, I mean?”

“Well,” said Anathema. This was it, she supposed. Cards on the table, and that. “I can’t speak for Crowley, of course, but I certainly think Aziraphale would… like that, yes.”

“That’s all right, then,” said Newt, “because I can’t speak for Aziraphale, but I  _ know  _ Crowley would definitely like that.”

Anathema blinked. That was surprisingly simple, then. 

“Oh. Don’t suppose you could convince Crowley to maybe… say so, then? Because Aziraphale certainly has no bloody clue.”

Newt shook his head wearily. 

“I  _ have  _ tried, a ton of times, but he’s scared shitless, I reckon. Any chance you could get Aziraphale to, er, fess up?”

Anathema sighed. 

“Fairly similar result there, I’m afraid. He’s… all of this is very new to him.” She paused. “Has Crowley really not noticed anything? Aziraphale practically trips over himself anytime he opens his mouth.”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.” Newt polished off his toast. “God. We really are friends with two of the biggest idiots in all of the Wizarding World, aren’t we?” 

Anathema nodded. 

“The question, then, is how do we get said idiots to be more than friends?” 

Newt let out a frustrated sigh. 

“That’s the thing. I could hint at Crowley that Aziraphale likes him— no, scratch that, I could flat out say ‘oi, dickhead, Anathema’s told me that Aziraphale’s madly in love with you’— and he’d either not believe me, rationalise it away, or come up with some excuse for why he still can’t tell Aziraphale how he feels. Hopeless, I’m telling you.”

Anathema smiled at Newt. 

“You’re a good friend, you know that?” 

Newt went bright red. 

“Piss off,” he mumbled, and looked down at the tablecloth with a sudden burning interest, as though it contained the solutions to all the mysteries of the universe. 

“I mean it,” said Anathema warmly. “You’re so supportive of Crowley, you’re funny, and you haven’t been awkward with me at all, after everything, even though you definitely could have been.”

“If you don’t like someone, you don’t like ‘em,” Newt said gruffly. “Just basic decency, really.”

Flicking her hair back from her shoulders, Anathema drained the dregs of her pumpkin juice, gave him a small grin, and then straightened up, back to business. 

“Our two idiots  _ do _ like each other, though,” she said. “So back to the matter at hand: how do we get them to do something about it?”

“As we’ve thoroughly established, I’m hardly the expert on relationships,” Newt said wryly. “More your department, I’d think.”

Fuck. And there was the other reason why Anathema would really rather appreciate it if Aziraphale and Crowley were to show up at some point soon: the three of them still hadn’t met Luna, and this was a thing Anathema felt sort of ought to happen sooner rather than later. Because things were going well with Luna, they really were: Luna was funny and clever and completely bonkers in the best way possible and so pretty it hurt and the last thing in the world Anathema wanted was for Luna to feel like she was in some way unworthy of meeting her friends. So now all Anathema needed was for two-thirds of said friend group to show up, so she could arrange some sort of meeting thing. Which would most likely be horribly awkward but something she really did feel she ought to do, just the same. 

Anathema realised she still hadn’t answered Newt’s question, and shrugged. 

“Oh, I don’t know, that all went very differently— faster, you know, I’m terrible at keeping things in, and besides, it’s not like we were friends beforehand, not in the way that these two are.”

Newt groaned. 

“Oh, let’s try this hinting business, for what it’s worth— we can even swap, yeah? I’ll tell Aziraphale directly that Crowley likes him, and you can do the same for Crowley, might make more of an impression that way.”

“I hope so,” said Anathema. Then she sighed. “But in the end, there’s only so much we can do. It’s got to be up to them.”

“Yes,” said Newt. “That’s just what I’m worried about.”

 

And so now it fell to Anathema to break the news to Crowley that Aziraphale did really rather fancy him. Which did feel a little bit like a breach of trust, Anathema supposed, but one glance at the pinched, thoroughly miserable look on Aziraphale’s face— the look, Anathema had noted, that had abated instantly when he smiled at Crowley— had been enough to convince her. So all right, she’d tell Crowley. The question, then, was how? 

The simplest way, probably, would have been to pull him over to the side one lunchtime, which would conveniently leave Newt on his own with Aziraphale to do the same. But Anathema could remember all too well the last time she’d had a conversation like that with Crowley, and just what the outcome of that had been. And that reminded her that they’d never properly sorted that, either, had they? Crowley had just gone very quiet about the whole Umbridge debacle, like he was hoping they’d all forget about it, and something about that made Anathema’s chest ache in a way that she couldn’t quite explain. 

In the end, Anathema grabbed Crowley in the corridors after dinner one evening, supposing that this would just have to do. 

“I need to talk to you,” she said, turning sharply on her heel in a valiant attempt to avoid any sort of incriminating almost-eye contact, and hoping very badly that Crowley would follow— the Hufflepuff, for his part, gave a remarkably awkward “ _ erk _ ” sort of sound, but didn’t actively protest, and so off they went. 

They ended up, of all places, in the library: finding another quiet corridor would have been too reminiscent of their previous conversation, it was usually quiet at this time of night anyway, and besides, Aziraphale, over the course of the last five years, had spent such an overwhelming amount of time here that he’d left behind almost an imprint of himself on the old books and mismatched shelves, and Anathema was sort of counting on this reminder to help keep herself from totally fucking this up. Hopefully. 

Crowley idly surveyed the contents of the shelf the pair of them had ended up huddled behind. 

“Wizarding policies of the fourteenth century… you know, I can safely say that that was the single dullest bit of History of Magic. Makes the bloody goblins look fascinating, the fourteenth century does.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Anathema easily, “wasn’t too keen on all the witch burning stuff, myself. But I think we both know I’m not here to talk to you about History of Magic.”

Crowley inclined his head. 

“What, then?” 

“Aziraphale,” she said simply, and didn’t miss the way Crowley’s whole body seemed to tense, the slight redness to his cheeks. 

“ _ Oh _ — have you— I mean—” Crowley broke off, rather stiffly, and took a deep breath. “What, ah, about him?”

Anathema gave him a Look. 

“I know you have feelings for him,” she said gently.

Crowley looked very much as though he would have liked the ground to swallow him whole then and there. 

“Oh,” he said again, in a much smaller voice. “And you know this  _ how _ , exactly?” he managed a few moments later, as though he was searching for some sort of plausible deniability. 

“You’re not exactly subtle about it,” Anathema said, in a way that she hoped was teasing rather than actually mean, “and Newt did, er, tell me.”

Crowley’s head shot round to face Anathema with a very real sort of horror and  _ hurt _ . Anathema found herself thinking back to her earlier qualms about breaches of trust rather uncomfortably. 

“He didn’t mean to— well the thing is,” she said, attempting to keep her tone even and placating, “he only told me because I told him— look, Crowley, have you really not noticed that Aziraphale very definitely has a crush on you?”

The look on Crowley’s face was almost comical, mouth forming a perfect  _ O  _ of shock. 

“He—  _ what _ ?”

“You really had no idea?” Delicacy, that was what this situation called for. And sensitivity, and Anathema wondered, in some distant, panicky corner of her mind, if this exchange couldn’t have been conducted in an epistolary manner instead, so that she could actually  _ think _ about what she was saying, and try not to be a total twat. 

“What is this, an intervention?” Crowley’s words, sharp with bitterness, were enough to drag Anathema out of her reverie. He paced up and down the narrow corridor in between shelves, crackling with nervous tension. 

“I— not intentionally, but…” Anathema sighed. “Aziraphale’s miserable, Crowley. He’s been solidly miserable since the day he told me he had feelings for you. And I might not have known you for too long— and I keep dragging you into these  _ awful  _ conversations, and I really am sorry for it— but you’re my friend too, Crowley, and at the moment I don’t think you’re too happy either.”

“Right,” said Crowley, fiddling with his sunglasses, pushing back his hair, anything to keep his hands occupied, to steady himself. “Right. So you and Newt decided to…” his voice seemed to crack slightly. “For Go— for  _ fuck’s  _ sake tell me Newt isn’t having this exact same conversation with Aziraphale right now.”

“That was sort of the plan,” Anathema admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “He hasn’t, though,” she added hastily, “yet.”

Crowley’s relief was almost a tangible thing, shoulders visibly relaxing. 

“Good. And he’s not going to.”

_ Delicacy _ , Anathema had to remind herself very forcibly, because she was about five seconds away from absolutely losing it. 

“Okay, and if Newt doesn’t say anything to Aziraphale about your feelings… are you going to?”

Crowley squirmed. 

“Er. Maybe. Eventually. Probably not.”

Anathema just stared at him. 

“O-kay,” she managed, dragging the word out. “Would you mind explaining why, exactly?”

Crowley gave a despondent shrug. 

“Because if my cousins found out, they’d be shit about it. Because I don’t know, what if you’re wrong and he doesn’t like me? What if we date, it doesn’t work out, and I fuck up a friendship that means a Hell of a lot to me?” Crowley sighed, and slumped against the bookshelf. His sudden stillness was unnerving. “Because I’m scared, really,” he said quietly. 

Anathema moved to stand next to him. 

“You like him a lot, don’t you?” 

Crowley nodded, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. 

“And Aziraphale likes you back: you  _ must  _ know that, deep down.”

Crowley didn’t respond. Anathema shuffled closer. 

“We can talk to Newt, yeah? And you know that if you’re really not comfortable with him talking to Aziraphale, he won’t.” She took a deep breath. “The thing is, though, Crowley… I mean, despite being scared… would you  _ want  _ to be in a relationship with Aziraphale?”

Crowley cocked his head to the side, considered this for a moment. 

“Yeah,” he said, after a while. “Yeah, I really would, and— well, that’s part of what scares me, I suppose,” he said, with an almost detached air of contemplation. “How  _ much  _ I want that.”

“Well, then,” said Anathema simply. “You know me and Newt will help, in any way we can. And you know that this is bound to come out, eventually.”

“I know,” said Crowley, a slightly pained expression on his face. “I’ll… get there in the end, I suppose.”

“Oh, come here, you  _ idiot _ ,” said Anathema, with feeling. And hugged him. Crowley tensed for a second, then acquiesced and threw his own lanky arms around her with a wry smile. 

“Thanks,” he said, mainly into her hair. Anathema just hugged him tighter. 

  
A few shelves away, perfectly hidden by the tightly-packed books and the library’s habitual dim lighting, another hopeless attempt by Madame Pince to keep people out, a huge, hulking—  _ lurking _ , even— figure had been listening with great interest. And smiled. 

This, Ligur thought, was excellent stuff. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! properly, this time. thanks so so much for getting this far tbh and to every single person who has commented or left kudos, you're all brilliant xxx


	33. Chapter 33

You missed out on a lot of muggle firsts, going to Hogwarts. This wasn’t normally something Aziraphale minded overly much— magic was more than wonderful enough to make up for it, and he sincerely doubted he’d have had a particularly wild adolescence, in any case— but boarding schools, magical or otherwise, could feel terribly restrictive at times. 

Aziraphale did his best to smother a curse as he got the wand movement wrong yet  _ again _ , and reflected on the fact that he currently quite fancied the idea of getting drunk. 

The thing was. The thing was, he’d called Crowley his dear a few more times now, growing less and less self-conscious each time he did so, and Crowley would smile and call him angel and it was all very nice and affectionate. Suspiciously so. The thing was, it had all felt like it ought to be leading up to something, some grand declaration of romance. 

Only, then it hadn’t. 

Well, of course it hadn’t, because Aziraphale could never in a million years actually work up the courage to actually admit to Crowley how he felt. And Crowley, for his part, hadn’t said anything because he hadn’t particularly seen any reason to; because Aziraphale had obviously been delusional to imagine that there was any way Crowley returned his feelings. 

Foolish, so foolish to allow himself the luxury of hope. 

Aziraphale sighed. He was becoming terribly melodramatic— the Wilde rubbing off on him, no doubt. 

What he needed, he thought, with a nagging tendril of guilt, was to  _ work _ . O.W.L.s were coming, and soon— already nearly a whole term gone, and every weekend he had told himself that this would be the big one where he would knuckle down and get to work, and every weekend, he hadn’t. Usually for some vague Crowley-related reason. And that was the other issue the end of term brought— for the first time in his nearly sixteen years on earth, Aziraphale had decided that he wouldn’t be going home for Christmas. 

On the surface of it, it was such a silly thing. He knew exactly what he’d be missing out on, anyway— Midnight Mass and the Queen’s speech on the telly and distant relatives popping in here and there, all accompanied by a vague sense of dissatisfaction. This was, he told himself, an academic decision— to allow himself more time to focus on his O.W.L.s, to prevent his parents shoving anything else down his throat for the time being. Which was true. What was also true, however, was that Aziraphale very desperately did not want to have the ‘I’m gay and quite possibly in love with the exact type of person you’d hate most in this world’ conversation, and figured that this conversation would be a lot more difficult to have if he simply did not physically see his parents until after the school year had finished. That ought to give him plenty of time to decide what he was going to say, and it was best not to be too hasty with this sort of thing. 

His decision, of course, had nothing in the slightest to do with the fact that Aziraphale knew perfectly well that Crowley stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas each year. Of course. 

Alcohol. He hadn’t the foggiest clue of what it would feel like to be drunk, but Aziraphale reckoned it would probably be quite good fun, at least according to all the books he’d read on the subject. It would probably serve as a decent distraction, at any rate. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale could really see no feasible way of getting said alcohol, so instead he sighed, picked up his wand, and got back to the tricky work of mastering switching spells, trying to get his wand movements precise. It was a difficult subject, transfiguration, technical to a fault, and that was the precise reason that Aziraphale had to excel at it: the difficulty, to him, seemed to lend a sort of prestige— the sort of thing, at one point, that he would have stuck at until he’d mastered, and enjoyed it, too, a self-satisfied sort of smugness. But at the moment, he was tired and miserable and sick of the thoughts racing through his mind, his O.W.L.s and his parents and Crowley, Crowley, Crowley all swirling together, and he just maybe needed… taking out of himself for a little while. 

Aziraphale kept ahold of his wand— there was something intrinsically comforting about it, his solid grip on the pale wood, feeling the faint tendrils of magic that coursed through it. Knowing he was capable with it, knowing it was there. A quiet confidence he seemed to be sorely lacking in most everything else. 

He gathered up his things, and went to find his friends. 

He found Anathema in the library, a charms essay sprawled out in front of her, and collapsed into the seat next to her with a weary smile.

Anathema shot him a wide grin. 

“Come to save me from shield charms, have you?”

“Just needed a break, really,” Aziraphale admitted. Anathema nodded, rolled up her parchment, and stuffed it into her bag. 

“Me too. I’m buzzing for the holidays, I reckon I’ll pull a Crowley and just sleep for a solid week…”

Aziraphale laughed— the Hufflepuff’s ability to sleep for record stretches of time was really rather awe-inspiring— but couldn’t stop the expression of mild horror that stole over his face at the thought. 

“I’ll be doing just the opposite, I think— I just feel as though if I get a lot done over the holidays, it’ll all be a bit more manageable once the next term starts.” 

“That’s right, you’re staying here, aren’t you? What do your parents think of that?”

Aziraphale shrugged. 

“I haven’t, ah, sent them the letter just yet,” he admitted. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” he added hurriedly. 

Anathema quirked an eyebrow, and then threw an arm round him. 

“Hey. What are you scared of?”  

He shrugged again, did his best to plaster on a wry smile. 

“It’s silly I know— I mean, it’s not as if they can send me howlers, at any rate— it’s just such a  _ bother _ , really,” he finished wanly. 

“Have you written the letter?” Anathema asked, nicely enough. Aziraphale nodded. It was short and excruciatingly formal and did not contain one single reference to Crowley. 

“Well, then,” Anathema said, businesslike as ever. “Best to just get it over with— I’ll come to the owlery with you, if you like.”

And so off they went. And off the letter went, simple as. Aziraphale watched a tawny owl soar off with it with an odd mixture of emotions churning in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t even the difficult part, really— that would be getting the reply. Aziraphale didn’t know why he got like this, dreadfully bothered over things that ought to be almost inconsequential, but he resented himself for it, just a bit. 

“Um,” said Anathema, once the bird had flown out of sight. “Speaking of little things it’s best to just get over with… I’d really like the three of you to meet Luna. And I’ve been putting it off, and making such a big thing of it and… er. If we went and found the others, do you think they’d mind?”

Aziraphale smiled. It was an oddly comforting feeling, being the one doing the reassuring rather than the one in need of reassurance, for once.  

“Newt’s nigh on losing his mind trying to figure out who it is, of course they won’t mind. And besides, I’d quite like to meet her, myself.”

“Yeah?” Anathema brightened. “Yeah. Yes. All right, we’re doing this.” She tossed her mass of dark hair over one shoulder, and looked back at Aziraphale. “Dreadfully productive weekend this is shaping up to be.”

_ Not academically _ , a snide voice whispered in Aziraphale’s head, and he did his best to push it down. There’d be plenty of time for revision over the holidays, he reminded himself sternly. What was important now was being there for his friend.

They found Crowley and Newt in the greenhouses, in the end, huddled around the chomping cabbages Newt was somewhat reluctantly growing for his own project, Crowley berating the plants and his fellow Hufflepuff with equal amounts of enthusiasm. Crowley had his dragonhide gloves pulled firmly on, and Aziraphale did his best not to stare too fixedly at Crowley’s right arm, more or less bruise-free at this point, Aziraphale knew, but still marred by faint red marks, tried not to think of the surprising vulnerability of his slack face, bare without his sunglasses. 

Aziraphale did his best to just relax— this was, even after everything, Crowley in his element, shoulders relaxed and those long, clever fingers moving deftly, plucking out weeds and leaves that just weren’t up to his standards. 

He was fine. Everyone else was fine, and Aziraphale seemed to be breaking down, crumbling away from the inside piece by piece until there’d be only a shell left. 

Crowley straightened up at the sight of them, brushed a fine smattering of dirt off his dark gloves. 

“Hey, Anathema.” He paused for a moment. “Angel.”

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale said, trying to force down the faint flush warming his cheeks. The greenhouse seemed to grow oppressively quiet, everyone exchanging rather significant looks. 

Newt shot a rather despondent glance at his cabbages, which didn’t seem to be chomping so much as smirking in an almost patronising manner. 

“If you’ve come to help, I don’t reckon even all three of you geniuses can do much at this stage,” he said gloomily. “Might as well accept that I’m failing Herbology, and ask Filch if he’s looking for an apprentice.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” said Anathema reassuringly. “Honestly, you should see the state of what Crabbe and Goyle are growing, or trying to. But. Er. Actually I’m here because I was sort of wondering if the three of you would want to meet Luna.” She stopped for a moment, gathering confidence, and then smiled in a way that made Aziraphale’s heart ache a little bit. “My girlfriend.”

Crowley, for his part, looked suitably impressed, but it was the look of sheer awe on Newt’s face that really took the cake, grin bright as anything. 

“You’re really— I mean, you trust us enough to—  _ thanks _ , Anathema.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” said Anathema, fiddling with the ends of her hair. “Or it shouldn’t be, anyway, only I kept on putting it off—”

“It is, though,” Newt said firmly, “especially after I ran my mouth to Crowley— sorry about that, by the way—”

Anathema laughed, and hushed him with a lazy wave of her hand. 

“Look, I’m doing this because— we’re  _ friends.  _ All four of us. And I… trust you, and I hope the three of you trust me.”

The silence that followed was one of a fair amount of embarrassment, but one, Aziraphale thought, of something like camaraderie at the same time. So that was all right then. 

Anathema shook her hair out over her shoulders. 

“Right. If that’s all sorted then I’ll go and find Luna and I’ll see the three of you in the Ravenclaw common room in… half an hour?”

Newt shot her a thumbs up. Anathema grinned, and legged it out of the greenhouse, leaving the three fairly bemused boys behind. 

“Well,” said Crowley. He turned to face Aziraphale, somewhat apologetically. “You’re stuck with us for the next half hour, then, I’m afraid, seeing as neither me nor Newt have ever been to the Ravenclaw common room before.”

“Oh, that’s just fine,” Aziraphale said, trying to ignore the sudden warmth in his cheeks. Probably just the greenhouse. “There’s much worse people to be stuck with. Er.”

Newt gave a particularly grim-looking cabbage a hopeful prod with a trowel, to no avail. Whatever the plant equivalent of rolling one’s eyes was, this cabbage was executing it perfectly. 

“Right. Grand. Can we please spend said half-hour trying to sort out the cabbages, yeah? Christ knows they need all the help they can get.”

This proved to be rather more entertaining than anticipated: as they weeded and watered and tried out the odd growing spell, Crowley kept up a constant stream of threats, swear words and general abuse at the plants, all in such an energetic, easy tone that it made something in Aziraphale’s chest ache, the little smile on his face. There was just something so wonderfully unaffected about it, just Crowley’s quick fingers and quicker tongue, and by the time their half hour was up, the cabbages were looking remarkably better. It was… very sweet, Aziraphale thought to himself. Not that he’d ever dare to say so out loud. 

The three of them made their way up to the Ravenclaw common room in a leisurely fashion, Aziraphale, as the only bona-fide Ravenclaw, somewhat reluctantly leading the way. The riddle system could be trying at the best of times. When you were desperately trying not to look like a complete idiot in front of your crush, it was fairly god-awful. Aziraphale tried to suppress the vague wave of panic rising up in him at the thought. 

“Out of interest,” asked Crowley, “this riddle thing, yeah, if you get it wrong, what happens?”

Aziraphale blinked. 

“Er, nothing much. Well,” he added, after a moment’s thought, “you do have to wait until someone else gets it right, which is a pain, but I suppose that’s the case for all the houses, regardless of system.”

“You just have to wait?” Newt asked, mild incredulity in his voice. “See, ‘cause in Hufflepuff, right, we’ve got this whole barrel-rapping thing, and if you get the rhythm wrong, you get absolutely doused in vinegar.”

“Happened to him a few times in first year,” Crowley informed Aziraphale, voice lilting with amusement. “The look on his face, absolutely priceless…”

“It got in my bloody eyes,” Newt huffed. “And that set of robes reeked for the rest of the year.”

“I thought you were meant to be the nice house,” said Aziraphale, furrowing his brow. Crowley just grinned at him. 

“And we’ve got to prevent others from taking advantage of that niceness, somehow. Seeing as we’re all so gentle and saint-like ourselves.”

Newt nodded, clasping his hands in front of him in supplication. Aziraphale just huffed, but made no attempt to hide the small smile that escaped him. 

By some minor miracle, all the eagle knocker asked of them was a fairly simple question on Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration, which Aziraphale reckoned he could have answered with his eyes closed. Aziraphale allowed himself a small smile, reassured in his intellectual capacity and the fact that he had not, as yet, cocked anything up on this particular day, and in they went. 

They found Anathema and the girl who was presumably Luna sitting at one of the tables near the window. Aziraphale did recognize her, vaguely: she cut a fairy distinctive figure, with her veritable cloud of blonde hair, and he did distinctly recall her coming very solemnly to his desk on occasions to warn him about vague Quibbler-sounding threats. As they got closer, he could see that they were holding hands, fingers woven together. He tried very hard not to look anywhere in the vicinity of Crowley, or his long, lithe fingers, to betray just how much he wished he could do the same. 

They took their seats, and Anathema gave a wide smile as she introduced them. 

“Right, boys, this is Luna, and Luna, this is Newt, Crowley and Aziraphale,” she said, indicating them each in turn. 

There was a moment’s silence, all of them rather unsure how to proceed from this point. Luna blinked, a slow, lethargic sort of thing. Then she looked over at Crowley. 

“I like your glasses,” she said. “Do they help you spot wrackspurts?” 

Crowley’s laugh was surprised, certainly, but there was a genuine warmth to it nonetheless. 

“Yes,” he said, with an oddly sincere sort of smile, considering, “that’s it exactly.”

“Wrackspurts?” Newt asked doubtfully. Aziraphale let out a plaintive little sigh, having heard Anathema’s impassioned little rants on the subjects several times before, and the two girls were off. 

“Well, they’re these invisible wee creatures, see,” Luna said placidly. 

“And they fly into yours ears and cause disorientation, lack of focus and the like,” Anathema filled in. “Fascinating, actually, only the whole being-invisible thing means there’s a terrible dearth of research on the subject.”

There was a momentary lull in the conversation as the others tried to process this. 

“That sounds like a fairly Quibbler-approved subject,” Crowley said, framing the sentence almost as a question. 

“My father’s the editor,” Luna said, that same easy affability to her tone, but with just a hint of challenge beneath. 

“Ah,” Newt managed after a while. “Good to see the two of you have… similar interests, then.”

“You think we’re batshit crazy, don’t you?” Aziraphale could  _ hear  _ the grin in Anathema’s voice, still gripping Luna’s hand tight. 

“Oh, god yeah,” Newt replied amiably. “But batshit crazy in a… sweet sort of way, I suppose.”

“Good.” Luna smiled. “It’s all right being crazy, you know. So long as you’re nice.”

 

It was a perfectly pleasant conversation: Luna, if somewhat eclectic, did seem a lovely, genuine human being, and there was something really, genuinely lovely in the smile on Anathema’s face, the luxury of basking in someone else’s happiness. And when Aziraphale took his leave to (finally, reluctantly) do some studying, it was with a warm glow of contentment. It was a wonderful thing, seeing your friends happy. 

_ And what if it was Crowley? _ a snide voice whispered in his head.  _ If he found someone else? Could you be happy then?  _

Aziraphale pushed it down, and made to go; Anathema saw, disentangled her hand from Luna’s, and dragged him over to a corner. 

“Well?” she asked, eyes glittering. “Does she have the Aziraphale seal of approval?”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale said earnestly. “She’s— well, I hope she makes you happy.”

He peered back towards their table, eyes hitching on Crowley’s angular form. Anathema followed his gaze. 

“Speaking of little things we just ought to get over with…” she murmured. 

Aziraphale sighed. 

“It’s not a little thing though, is it? At least not for me.”

Anathema patted him on the shoulder. 

“You’ll get there,” she said firmly. “You  _ will.  _ And then I’m holding you to going on that double date with me and Luna.”

Aziraphale gave her a wan smile, and left. 

 

Aziraphale wandered through the corridors of Hogwarts in a languid fashion, mind swirling with thoughts of the work he ought to be doing, the vague impression of his parents’ disapproval, and, much as he tried to suppress it, Crowley. As ever. 

Maybe he ought to… write a letter? That way he’d have time to plan things out, at any rate, and it’d be much more eloquent without a doubt than anything he’d be able to muster up on the spot. This had the added advantage too that he needn’t be there while Crowley read it, something of a double-edged sword maybe, but— 

The arrival of a rather large arm, slung carelessly over Aziraphale’s shoulders in a way that a cat might deposit a headless budgie on a doorstep, rather jarred him out of his thoughts. Aziraphale looked up, with a resigned sort of trepidation, to see the large and leering figure of Hastur, with Ligur not far behind. 

Aziraphale did his best to stifle a sigh. 

Hastur seemed to take that as enough of an acknowledgement, and gave a vaguely menacing sort of smile. 

“You know,” he said, “I think the three of us sort of got off on the wrong foot.”

“Really,” said Aziraphale dryly, as he did his veritable best to extricate himself from Hastur’s grip. This proved to be somewhat difficult. 

“The thing is, yeah,” Hastur pressed on, with a sort of easy smoothness that made Aziraphale feel sort of as though he’d rehearsed this speech earlier, “I think me and Ligur sort of owe you an apology.”

Aziraphale blinked. That was… not what he had expected. 

“Oh?” he asked, still somewhat wary. The two Slytherins nodded vigorously. 

“‘M afraid we made some… assumptions about you, see,” Ligur intoned with a solemnity that felt almost cartoonish. 

This simply could  _ not  _ be going in the direction that Aziraphale thought it was. He was well aware that this was a selfish, ridiculous thought, but it would be really rather inconvenient to have to start accepting Hastur and bloody Ligur, of all people,  as decent human beings. 

“Look, the truth of it was that we’d assumed you and Crowley were… together.” 

“Seeing,” Ligur added helpfully. 

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, more confused than anything. That had taken… a turn. He opened his mouth to correct them, but Hastur just bulldozed on with his little speech. 

“Don’t worry,” he said breezily, “Crowley set us straight, made it very clear that there’s  _ nothing  _ going on between the two of you.”

“And we were very bloody relieved,” Ligur said. “So no harm done, then.”

“Relieved?” Aziraphale repeated doubtfully. He was really rather confused as to what was going on here, and if Crowley had so eminently denied having any feelings for him, then that probably wasn’t a very good sign— unless— oh, now was distinctly  _ not  _ the time to be processing that. 

“Well. A bloke,  _ and  _ a mudblood,” Ligur said, tossing out the slur with a casual sort of cheeriness. “You can see why we might have been concerned, yeah?”

Aziraphale still wasn’t one hundred percent sure on what was going on, but was relatively sure he was being insulted, and narrowed his eyes in response. 

Hastur tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders in a way that Aziraphale thought might have been intended to be vaguely reassuring, but most definitely did not come off as such. 

“Really, though. It’s all for the best, ‘cause if  _ we  _ were worried, then our Da— that’d be Crowley’s uncle,” he added, as if to make sure Aziraphale had gotten the message, “well, he definitely wouldn’t approve. And I doubt you’d want to get on his bad side.” 

“But you’re not dating Crowley, luckily,” Ligur chimed in.

“Right.” said Hastur, giving Aziraphale one last, resounding thump on the shoulder before peeling his arm away. “So just you keep it that way, and we’ll all get along just fine.”

 And on that chipper note, the two of them departed, leaving Aziraphale behind in the empty corridor, irritated and vaguely insulted and mostly very, very confused. 

Well. It looked like he wouldn’t have to start accepting Hastur and Ligur as decent human beings in any capacity, which was reassuring, in a very warped sort of way. 

As far as he could figure, he had just been threatened with Hastur and Ligur’s father, their  _ Death Eater father,  _ if he so much as thought about… dating Crowley? 

This was, the teensey rational voice in the back of Aziraphale’s mind put forward, objectively a fairly terrible situation. And the fact that Crowley had to live with these people, these horrible, hateful people, made Aziraphale feel almost physically sick. But. 

_ But why had they thought to warn him off? _

Aziraphale hadn’t given much of an indicator to anyone, other than Anathema, about his feelings for Crowley. He hoped. And even if he had, would it not have made more sense for Hastur and Ligur to simply tell him outright that Crowley didn’t return his feelings, rather than make such a grandiose threat? 

One could simply chalk it up to a general lack of intelligence or imagination, of course, and Hastur and Ligur hardly seemed like future contenders for Minister Of Magic. The other explanation, though, was that maybe… Crowley’s feelings weren’t the one in dispute. That perhaps it was Aziraphale’s own feelings they had been trying to ascertain. 

Which could, hypothetically, mean that Crowley did have some sort of feelings for Aziraphale, and that Hastur and Ligur knew. 

It was a stretch. It was more than a stretch. But somehow, the odd little double act, the almost rehearsed malice to the brothers’ words, left Azirapahle feeling more hopeful than he had in a long while. Confirmation from such a distinctly unlikeable source was easier to trust in than confirmation from his best friend, maybe. Less biased, somehow. Or perhaps it was simply what Anathema would lovingly refer to as his contrary bastard-ness, the desire to instantly go against what the two Slytherins had wanted of him. Either way, it was oddly pleasant, this flicker of hope deep in his core. 

There was, however, only one way he could really be sure. 

Oh God. Oh fuck. 

He was going to have to talk to Crowley. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so so much for reading! I love all of you xxxx


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